The Battle of New Mombasa
by Thuggery
Summary: The Covenant have found Earth, and New Mombasa burns. Human defenders struggle to hold back the alien tide. This is their story.
1. Prologue

"Never in the field of human conflict was so much owed by so many to so few."  
- Winston Churchill

* * *

**Tayari Plaza, New Mombasa, Earth**

**0932 Military Standard Time**

_Just another open-shut case of people with access to guns and too much time on their hands_, Senior Detective Cole Perez thought to say out loud, but kept his mouth shut as he looked down at the corpse. Most of the blood had already started to dry on the polycrete street and would probably make a mess for the sweepers later. At least there weren't all too many people on the streets, they were all probably glued to the set watching the awards ceremony involving one of those Navy special forces types.

That wasn't his concern, though. The body was. Caucasian male, approximately in his mid-forties with dusty brown hair, conservatively-cut three-piece suit that was now unwearable thanks to a pair of holes through the belly that Perez had a sneaking suspicion he could fit a hand through. Picking out another morsel of meat from his usual breakfast of kjøttkaker smothered with acai jam, he chewed and looked at his partner thoughtfully.

His partner was fresh blood, if there was such a thing nowadays with the war going on, and despite whatever the vids were chattering about. The kid looked no older than his mid-twenties, still clean-shaven and snappily dressed. He also looked about ready to lose whatever it was that he had for breakfast. Young enough that maybe the Commissioner hadn't gotten to him yet. A member of a rare breed, Detective Jorgen Tseng was. Cole didn't want to see the kid wind up on the take. He reminded him a little too much of his kid brother.

"Looks like go-mag work," he grunted as he swallowed and picked out another meatball to chew on. "You see anything?"

"Looks, uh, looks about right," Jorgen said, a hand over his mouth and nose. "The technicians said the time of death was about under five hours ago. Did they find any ID on him?"

Perez knelt down to examine the body. "Nothing intact, nothing we can read at least." He pulled his police-issue chatter out and keyed up a NMPD access code, speaking when the screen flashed green, "Perez, Cole. I need some playback on my chatter. Tayari Six, five hours to now. Sixty to one dilation."

His chatter's screen suddenly switched from the basic NMPD interface screen to surprisingly clear security camera footage of where he was standing now. It showed only the passing crowds of the pre-dawn day, most of them civilians with jobs with any number of the various industrial and commercial concerns who occupied New Mombasa. With each minute of the surveillance footage compressed into a second, the crowds were blurred into a non-stop mess of color and shapes. Now all he had to do was wait for something to stay long enough to pin down…

There. At four hours and thirty minutes ago, the body suddenly appeared where it was now on the pavement during a break in the crowds. It was already sporting the go-mag holes then. So this was getting a little more complicated with a transported body. Why didn't they just drop it off in an Olifant? That would have cut down on the possibility of anyone actually seeing them, as well as cleaning up after themselves quite nicely. Things were looking to become even more complicated.

"Pause. Rewind to marker Seven Sierra. Decrease dilation to five to one."

He watched as the crowds moved much like something for an early twentieth century celluloid film, almost at normal pace but just a little too manic to be "real" to the viewer. A moving van rolled past the camera, and when it passed, the body had appeared.

"Pause. One step back. Pause."

The AI mainframe obliged and he was looking at the shape of the moving van. Gray and blue with no livery colors. It looked like a late model Michelin-Vance Ground Mover from what he could see. No license plates, but they were on the grid.

"Tag playback segment. Save to mainframe under Perez, Cole, Delta-Oh-Oh-Seven-One-One-Alpha-Three-Niner-Mike-Papa-Delta."

His chatter screen winked green in confirmation before he shoved it into his pocket. Finishing his boxed breakfast, he made a mental note to double-check with the lab once they were finished. Ever since Kinsler had taken over, things tended to disappear and appear at random. Perez knew he shouldn't be one to criticize the take system, but by God, there used to be _standards_ about it.

He threw the food container away and looked at Tseng, shoving his hands into the pockets of his worn suit jacket. "Got any theories?"

"It's go-mag work, right?"

_That's what I just said…_ Cole sighed and wished he had some coffee. "If you're figuring what I think you're figuring…"

"Well, Ki-" Tseng began.

"Keep your mouth shut," Perez hissed suddenly, interrupting him with a glare before jerking his chin at the nearby camera. _The idiot, we're still on the grid! _"Everyone uses M6s nowaways. Seems like the military's handing them out like candy. For all we know, this here stiff just happened to be on the wrong side of an organized business transaction gone wrong."

He shifted slightly in place, his arm brushing against his holstered standard-issue M6B. Loaded with department and military-issue semi-armor-piercing high-explosive rounds, they would leave _exactly_ those sorts of holes he was looking at. Perez had been involved in exactly two altercations that had required him to draw and fire on a suspect. He _knew_ how those sorts of wounds turned out, the victim sprawled out on the street, hopefully dead but commonly alive and screaming as they tried to keep their shredded internal organs that way. _And the smell…_

"Standards," he muttered darkly. Turning, he looked at his partner. "Come on, we're going. Leave collection to the corpse-humpers."

Tseng shrugged and started to follow him as the crime scene investigators got their chance at the body. Blue-gowned, they seemed to swarm all over the body and the scene like a boiling mass of insects. Cole repressed a shudder and walked toward their department-issue Genet. It was only 9:30, and things were looking dark in the October morning.

The sky suddenly lightened as if in response to his thought. Brow furrowing, Perez looked up. It wasn't a cloudy day, so why the sudden shift? What he saw left his jaw slack. His eyes had to have gone bad for him to see things in double. There couldn't be two suns, right? Shaking hands wiped at his eyes as he joined the rest of the pedestrians in staring up at the sky. _Two suns…_

Squinting, he could barely make out that the second sun was an oblong shape. Not a sun then. A ship, then? Transfixed by the image, he continued to look upwards. His eyes adjusted enough to see smaller flashes of light fill the sky.

The tiny crowd that had gathered was speaking in hushed tones, many of them still staring up at the sight. He couldn't hear what they were saying exactly, but he caught the general tone. Awe, wonder, and fear. He was feeling plenty of the first and third right then and there. The lightshow suddenly grew in size, a pinpoint flaring up into a radiant star for a moment. And yet the second "sun" grew larger. A gnawing thought dug its way out of his mind. _Those had to be ships, or the Orbital Defense Platforms…_

Just then, the public address system crackled to life. "All New Mombasa Police Department personnel, please report to your closest precinct house as soon as possible, Code Guardian-Three-Four. All civilians and non-essential personnel, please find your closest City Shelter, pending relocation. Message repeats. All New Mombasa Police Department personnel…"

That wasn't good. "Guardian-34" was a long-standing and commonly-amended general order for the NMPD and other Civilian Security Forces of the UNSC Colonial Administration. It meant an imminent invasion of the planet, and it meant that they would have to mobilize to repel the invasion, or at least provide a delay before _real_ soldiers could arrive on the scene. Cole didn't even want to think about what could be the cause for the declaration of the order. The Covenant.

Tearing his eyes away from the spectacle, he reached over to grab Tseng by his shoulder to haul him toward their car. "Come on!" he screamed. "We need to get-"

Something flashed through the air, silvery and purple at the same time. The air crackled and seemed to ignite around him and his partner. Detective Cole Perez had only a moment to scream before the overpressure wave from the plasma burning into the nearby pavement slung him head over heels into the side of the Genet where he saw one last thing before the darkness claimed him: a sleek purple alien vessel descending on the city, its sheer size blotting out the sun. The Covenant had come to Earth.

* * *

Well, here's my first effort at fan fiction. Or at least the first one I'm putting up. This'll be updated hopefully semi-regularly. No promises, though.


	2. Chapter I

**HIGHCOM Facility Bravo-6, Sydney, Earth**

**0844 Military Standard Time**

If the Hive was the center of all power in the United Nations Space Command, the halls of power needed a good sweeping. Lieutenant Marlon Kurtz stepped over a coolant leak that had pooled on the tiled floor leading into one of the many control centers in the new headquarters of the UNSC. Well, it wasn't strictly _new_, but Bravo-6 was not intended to sustain these many people working within it for this long. After the fall of Reach, all survivors had been relocated to this secondary nerve center in the middle of Sydney, Australia. While it had been a vital part of the command apparatus that kept the UNSC and its components running smoothly, Bravo-6 and the Hive underneath were never supposed to be able to sustain a population much larger than what the designers had originally intended.

Subsequently the maintenance crews couldn't keep up with the repair and upkeep, and things went downhill from there. At least the filtration units still worked. Kurtz dodged a Shock Trooper officer, distinguishable by the "all-blacks" dress uniform that the Orbital Drop Shock Troopers favored for formal events as well as the flaming skull insignia pin. Those guys were crazy, their officer corps even more so. Finally walking into the control center, he found himself staring at an even worse of a mess. But the information in his arms was vital. He would _have_ to get through.

The control center had been roughly carved out of the bedrock of the city, much like the rest of the Hive. Three screens dominated the cramped chamber, with large consoles staffed by uniformed men and women. They were poring over flashing readouts showing almost incomprehensible data scrolling across it. This was one of the major Unified Ground Command's air hubs in the Hive, where the big heads got together to make big decisions. He could pick the policy-level officers out with ease, their uniforms being the cleanest and most sharply folded of anyone else in the room, Kurtz included.

Finding Admiral Theodore Preston wasn't a problem. The problem was getting to him. Stumbling and squeezing past several dozen officers, he eventually managed to get to the Navy officer. The rear admiral was looking at specifications for a frigate subsystem on a computer screen. A smaller window at the corner of the screen showed live footage from the awards ceremony taking place above their heads on the Cairo ODP. He checked the folder that he'd stowed under his arm and then stood at attention.

"Lieutenant, what do you have?" Preston asked suddenly, turning around.

"Sir," he started. Taking a steadying breath, he handed over the folder. "Satellite telemetry from Neptune and Io, sir. They picked up a Covenant fleet in-system."

He still couldn't believe that fact himself. The long-range surveillance satellites had picked up the Slipspace disruptions produced by a _large_ flotilla of ships, undoubtedly Covenant. Any surviving UNSC naval assets would have come from a randomized route instead of the traditional and much safer trans-Neptunian points, thanks to Admiral Cole's policies. This was unbelievably bad news. Maybe the Covenant were just passing by, but they were now definitely going to stop for a look when they saw all of the human-colonized planets, and Earth itself.

To his credit, Preston's face didn't blanch like others within earshot. His knuckles whitened as he read the documents, but he hid nay reaction well. He slowly put the opened folder and its contents down and closed his eyes.

"Lieutenant, has the Security Committee been notified?"

"Yes sir," Kurtz affirmed with a nod. "General Strauss has already mobilized the Marines, and the Home Fleet is already mobilizing to engage."

He watched as the admiral sat in his seat, totally still. Preston then opened his eyes and turned to face the computer terminal, speaking as he started to pull up a listing of units.

"Lieutenant Kurtz, go catch Captain Griggs. He'd be the officer in all-blacks who just left," the admiral said as he worked. "We'll need all hands on deck, Helljumpers included. Keep your data pad on hand. I will be transmitting orders for you and the Captain."

He gulped. _Speaking with an ODST? And an officer at that? You're kidding me, right? Don't they feed on the marrow of children? _"Yes sir, right away, sir."

Turning, Kurtz hurriedly left the suddenly silent room. He heard the admiral turn on the other occupants as he walked away: "What're all of you lollygagging about for? The alien bastards to come digging down for you with a goddamn written invitation? You know the drill!"

So he'd been noticed. Admirals usually didn't pay much attention to lowly lieutenants, not unless they had a future under them. Kurtz figured that he could try not soiling his pants when dealing with the Helljumper officer and his men for the sake of potential fast-tracked promotion. And predators could smell fear after all.

* * *

**Infinite Sacrifice, Fleet of Dutiful Contrition, Slipspace**

**0851 Military Standard Time**

"My blood, Ranger 'Kasamee! Why is your flight harness soiled?" Commander Hatam 'Sraomee bellowed, his face only a finger's width away from his subordinate.

To his credit, 'Kasamee did not flinch. "Sir, I do not know, sir!"

"Ranger 'Kasamee, if there is one thing that I hate more than you, it is improperly maintained equipment! You know that, do you not?"

"Sir, yes, sir!"

"And why is that, Ranger 'Kasamee?"

"Poor maintenance leads to poor habits, which dulls our edge, Commander!"

"Precisely. Now because of Ranger 'Kasamee, I want all of you on the deck, thirty press-ups!"

The Sangheili immediately dropped to all fours on the deck of the troop bay and began their press-ups. Normally easier with a modern harness, the flight harness made things much more difficult. It was heavier, and the plates had a tendency of pinching delicate places. But they would never complain, not the Rangers. They had been chosen from the ranks of the Covenant Army for an aptitude for thinking outside of standard doctrine, and then they had been trained, trained beyond the already strict standards for a Sangheili to take on the "-ee" suffix to their names. All the same, Hatam took the opportunity to provide motivation for those who were performing slower.

"Come on, Ranger 'Vadamee! One more for your blood!" he bellowed at the first Ranger to finish his press-ups. "Now one more for the service!" he shouted again as 'Vadamee struggled to perform another press-up. "And one for the Heirarch!" Only then did the Ranger falter, his arms collapsing on him in utter exhaustion. "I guess the Heirarch does not get his press-up," he said before moving on to rant at another Ranger.

'Sraomee was interrupted by a public address announcement. "Ranger Commanders, report to the control room immediately."

Growling at the interruption, he turned away from the Ranger and looked at the other Rangers of his unit lined up for inspection. "When I return, I expect you all to have your equipment in clean and working order, or by my blood, I will feed you to the Jiralhanae myself!"

He then turned and stalked out of the crew bay, leaving his Rangers and his demeanor behind. Like many of the other Special Operations officers with their own commands, 'Sraomee was immensely proud of the Sangheili under his command. He would do anything for them, and they would do anything he asked. Such was the loyalty they were ingrained with since their first walking days. It was their pride, a life devoted to the service of the Prophets and the Covenant, seeking out and exterminating those who tried to stand against the might of the Covenant.

Several Regular Army Sangheili passed by him as he walked down the corridor to the lift, nodding in deference when they saw his specialized armor. The Rangers and the other Special Warfare units of the Covenant were held is special regard, particularly amongst the Sangheili. Epitomes of Sangheili martial prowess, they were given top priority when it came to rearming and refitting. 'Sraomee was suddenly aware of another Ranger closing in behind him.

"Commander 'Sraomee!"

Turning at the familiar voice, 'Sraomee felt a smile spread across his face. "Brother," he said, reaching out to clasp Commander Ronal 'Sraomee's arm in the traditional Sangheili greeting.

"I believe we could hear your lecture two bays away," Ronal said, a smirk plastered on his own face. "Has 'Kasamee not been a model for the others again?"

"Discipline must be enforced," Hatam said as they broke away to continue walking toward the lift together. "He _is_ a model, but no role model is perfect. Not even candidates for the Lights."

"Any thoughts as to why we have been called to Command?"

He shrugged as he removed and examined his helmet. "Ours is not to question the will of the Prophets."

The other two Ranger commanders joined them to make the trip up from the bowels of the Assault Carrier's troop bays to the control room of the flagship of the Fleet of Dutiful Contrition. They were unrelated from the States of Zamam and Nosol, both proven in battle like any other ranking Sangheili officer of any branch of the Covenant military.

But they never shared the bond that Hatam and Ronal did. They had been raised by the same uncle during their childhoods, and had gone through Iruiru War College together. It had been a common joke in their warrior crèche that they shared a bond that made bonded Mgalekgolo look like squabbling Kig-Yar pirates. They worked well together, and Ranger training had only served to improve that bond.

"I just heard from one of the officers from the Special Operations detachment," Commander Jil'qa 'Nosolee said as he pulled his helmet on as they stepped into the open lift. "We are on-site and to be deployed."

"Oh, is that it?" Ronal asked, rolling his shoulder as he prepared to don his own helmet. "I thought the artifact would be planetside from how the commanders were talking during our pre-mission briefing. We actually have work now?"

"The will of the Prophets," Hatam said, brushing a loose flake from his helmet. "Not ours."

"There you go again," Commander Gros 'Zazamee said with a snort. "Ronal, could you please beat some sense into your brother when we return? He needs to lighten up."

Joining in with the laughter as well, Hatam fitted his own helmet on. The onboard systems booted up and performed a warm-up routine as the four commanders shot up the gravity lift toward the control room. So they were actually being deployed then? The Prophets were not particularly forthcoming with information. He longed to skirmish with the humans again. Small and weak, they were still worthwhile adversaries. Quick on their feet, tenacious, and willing to die for their comrades, they were still honorable and deserving of a clean death by sword whenever possible. Suffer not the heretic, the unbeliever, the human, was the word from their commanders who had received word from their own commanders who answered to the Prophets.

They performed last-second inspections on each other for any blemishes in their uniforms before stepping out into the control room. Rangers were given certain liberties, such as usage of the more traditional assault harness that had been banned by the Prophets during the creation of the Covenant. But they could only take so many of such liberties, and appearing in front of commanders with dirty equipment was something that was just not done. Checking that his rifle was properly clipped to his thigh-plate, he looked straight ahead and followed the others out into the control room.

He felt his skin prickle at the sight of the Jiralhanae standing with Admiral 'Umamee and the Heirarch. 'Umamee was clearly uncomfortable about it as well. The Sangheili were after all supposed to run this ship, not those uncouth and unintelligent creatures. Their very presence filled the air with a clinging stink. Hatam noticed Ronal stiffen as well, much like the other two Ranger commanders.

"Your Eminence," 'Nosolee said, bowing deeply to the Heirarch. "You had called for us?"

"Yes, yes, commander," the High Prophet of Regret said. "Observe what lies before us," he said, his hand making a grand gesture toward the Combat Information Center's holographic ribbon of data and imagery.

If it were not for the sealed helmet, Hatam had a feeling that his jaws would have fallen slack at the sight. They had come out of slipstream space sometime while the four commanders had been traveling up to the control room. The image was still being resolved from sensor readouts, but so far it looked like a planet around the same size as Sanghelios. But that was where the similarities ended. The planet was a blue and green orb with a small rocky moon orbiting it, and the planet was practically encrusted with Luminary glyphs. But there was not just that. There was also the veritable flotilla of human warships arrayed in orbit around the planet.

"Is that…?" Ronal whispered, looking on in awe.

"Yes," the Prophet said simply. "Earth."

Nothing else needed to be said. There were preparations to be made, boarding craft to be prepared. They could finally put an end to this debacle once and for all, and quite frankly, Commander Hatam 'Sraomee was quite looking forward to it.

* * *

**New Mombasa Police Department Precinct 43, New Mombasa, Earth**

**0942 Military Standard Time**

The first sign something was happening was when an explosion about four blocks away rocked the Forty-Third Precinct's station. Then reports started filtering in through the dispatch centers about giant alien ships in the air around roughly the same time. They had begun deploying to assist when an order had come in from Headquarters to stay put and leave it for the City Militia to handle the evacuation. Kinsler wasn't stupid. He couldn't be to have remained in power at the head of the department for so long. He was doing this for a reason.

Seated on one of the runners of the precinct's tactical truck, Sergeant Mack Gerhardt's gloved fingers drummed a beat on the hybrid metal and polymer stock of his MA5C ICWS. These were fairly recent arrivals, one of the few positive things that Commissioner Kinsler _had_ done for the department. Most of the other police departments on Earth and on her colonies usually had to request permission to draw military-grade weapons. But the commissioner had somehow managed to have the latest firearms and equipment shipped to them. Fully-kitted officers were happy officers, especially when they did not wonder about where their weapons had likely been diverted from.

As it was, the inaction was driving him and the rest of the tactical unit nuts. Technically, they were only part of the whole tactical unit, but well over half of the officers hadn't reported in when the explosions started. They could hear the mayhem outside as the Covenant landed. Half of the precinct had already deserted and had gone off into the city to do what they could to assist with the fighting or evacuation. He was itching to join them. Fuck the orders, there were people who needed help. Looking around, he started to get up.

Before he could fully get to his feet, part of the underground garage's roof caved in. He was knocked off his feet by the impact, the Covenant plasma detonating the hydrogen cells of the department's vehicles and slamming his head against the side of one of the other trucks. Thankfully the same truck shielded him from the heat and flames as he got back onto his feet.

"Mack!" he heard over the ringing in his ears. "Mack, are you okay?"

Turning his head felt like sloshing a bucket full of lead shot and axle grease, but he managed to look at Officers Robert Brown and Hector Williams as they rushed over from their poker game. He staggered fully to his feet, bracing himself on the side of the truck. The now partially crushed truck, with possibly a half ton of debris where the front of the cab had been.

"I'm fine," he said, probably louder than he intended. "You guys okay?"

"We're fine! Now fuck orders and let's get the hell outta here!"

Gerhardt couldn't agree more. He nodded and pulled the bolt of his MA5C back and guided it back forward to chamber the first round from the magazine. "What're we waiting for?"

They scrambled for the stairs leading up to the stationhouse proper. Much of it was still fairly orderly, but most of the remaining officers were armed and crowded around the windows. Several of them turned to watch as the three Special Weapons and Tactics men emerged from the staircase. They had drawn arms without permission, but even the station chief was looking permissive. Alien invasions tended to do that.

Williams sat Gerhardt down at a desk and pulled out his penlight. "We got some time. Let me see those eyes," he said. "Ears still ringing?"

"'m fine," Gerhardt said, trying to push him away. "Head hurts," he mumbled after a moment when Brown held him down by his shoulders.

"Just what I thought," Williams said, one hand holding Gerhardt's eyelid open and the other waving the light to check for responsiveness. "Ears ringing? Dizzy?" He sighed when Gerhardt nodded. "Your pupils are uneven. I'd say a concussion at best. I'll see about getting you some acetaminophen and water and transport. _Stay here_."

Gerhardt nodded put his rifle down. His head was still ringing from the impact against the truck, and he could taste something metallic in his mouth. Closing his eyes, he pulled his ballistic helmet off. Fat lot of good it did for him. Williams returned shortly with a commandeered mug of water and pill bottle. He gratefully accepted both and downed a pair of the pearly pills with a gulp of water.

Somebody had thought enough to project a map of the precincts of New Mombasa onto one of the main screens of the workspace. It was obviously linked to Vergil, their city AI, given the scrolling feed of security footage on the borders of the map. There were also several dozen "flare-ups" indicating mass movement on the motion detectors. Those had been labeled as red to indicate that Vergil thought them to be hostile.

The ringing in his ears had mostly subsided as he started to single out local trouble spots on the screen. But by then the sounds of a city under siege became much more evident as well. He could see distant purple specks flashing through the air. Covenant ground support aircraft by the keening that he could hear as well whenever one of them buzzed past, strafing some unseen target or another. The militia units were just barely holding on, a good number of them outright disappearing from the tracking systems.

"Come on, we have to move out," Brown said, helping Gerhardt off of his seat on the desk. "Hector got us some transport."

He nodded and picked up his assault rifle. Outside, Covenant artillery landed a round on what might have been a hydrogen refueling station. Whatever had been stored there went off like a bomb, lighting up the already bright sky. That had been distressingly nearby, and reminded most of the officers at the windows to stay clear of the windows. Shatterproof carbon-fiber reinforced polycarbonate was never truly shatterproof, and plasma would probably melt right through it.

"Do you have any place in mind?" Gerhardt asked Brown as he was helped down the staircase. "Or are we doing a whirlwind tour?"

"I figured we'd do this one by ear," Brown said with a smirk. "You're all kitted out?"

"I am, aren't I?"

Maybe the joke fell flat or something, Gerhardt wasn't all too sure. Both tactical officers were already dressed in their "on-call" uniforms; all-black utilities and an armored vest that sported enough mounting points to make any Marine green with envy. Between the three officers, they carried enough ammunition to supply a squad of "proper" soldiers in a firefight. The armorers called it wasteful, but they just thought of it as being prepared for contingencies.

Exiting the station, Gerhardt found himself staring at a street empty of people. Their vehicles and the detritus that seemed to follow modern man were still lying about abandoned on the street, the lighter items blowing or rolling around in the breeze. He could hear the explosions of combat much more clearly now in the open. Tugging his ballistic helmet on again, Gerhardt looked up at the skies. The skies above New Mombasa were still under contention, both in orbit and in the atmosphere. Skyhawk air-superiority fighters sparred with Covenant air assets, both sides weaving around each other and jockeying for that single clear shot in the mess of a dogfight.

"Hey, guy, get aboard, huh?"

Gerhardt turned at the sound of a car horn to see Williams at the wheel of a garish pink and blue Hog. A bark of laughter escaped him as he jogged over to help Brown load several boxes of ammunition aboard.

"You cheeky bastard," he said to Williams, grinning. "You nicked this, didn't you?"

"Wartime procurement, man," Williams said with a jaunty shrug. "Like the wheels?"

"Sure," Gerhardt said, grunting as he slid the last footlocker of ammunition into the back. "Figure out how _I'm_ going to sit yet? There's only two seats."

"In the back, man," he said, pointing at the back of the Hog where he'd obviously taken a knife to the tire mounting to open up space. "You can babysit the ammo."

Hauling himself aboard, Gerhardt moved a box of M225 ammunition packets forward to make an impromptu seat facing the rear of the civilian vehicle. The damned thing had _leather seats_.Testing his COM, he found that his already-selected frequency had switched, likely the fault of either the explosion or his impact against the truck jarring something or causing one eye-blink too many. He switched back to TEAMCOM with a few more eyeblinks.

"Okay, so what's the game plan?" he asked over TEAMCOM.

"Shelter Fourteen-Sierra," Williams said, tapping the GPS that the previous owner had been so kind enough to install. "It's the closest. Agreed?"

"Were we ever not?" Brown asked, his smirk audible. "Hit it, Jeeves."

"Now that's some serious race-hating shit right there," Williams said with a laugh as he gunned the motor and laid his infamously leaden foot on the pedal to throw the Hog forward. "Jeeves? Come on, man!"

They drove in relative silence. Wherever the Covenant were, they hadn't found them yet. Maybe it was because they were traveling nearly eighty miles per hour. How Williams could even begin to maneuver at that speed astounded Gerhardt. Things just seemed to blur around them as they deftly swerved and drifted past the obstacles that they couldn't just run over. The sound of the rushing wind made normal conversation impossible, forcing them to switch over to the COM headsets built into their helmets.

"What do you figure Kinsler's up to with the order?" Brown asked. "I know he's as crooked as a Colonial administrator, but what the hell is with the 'stay put' shit? Doesn't he know he's looking at a shooting squad at best?"

"Ours is not to reason why," Gerhardt said. "Just to do or die, remember?"

Brown snorted. "Hell if I don't. Just bugs the hell outta me. Hey, you remember to pack the spotter scope, right?"

"And I remembered to brush my teeth too, Mom," Gerhardt said. "I'd be a little more concerned about how Hector's-_Oh, shit!_"

Williams suddenly swung the Hog about, utilizing the handbrake. Gerhardt barely had time to cling desperately onto the side of the vehicle to avoid being tossed bodily out. He felt what might have been his already battered brain pressing against the inside of his skull from the sudden swerve.

"Contact, one o'clock!"

Grabbing his MA5C, Gerhardt swung to track the target with the rifle already shouldered. There. A pack of those lizard-bird-looking aliens totaling five in number. They hadn't noticed them until Brown opened up with his M7 submachine gun. Gerhardt joined in, firing short bursts with his assault rifle. Their combined fire cut down three of the aliens before the two survivors could react.

Two iridescent circular shields sprung into existence to deflect their rounds into their surroundings and away from the aliens. Seeing this, Brown adjusted his point of aim slightly and the staggered bursts of his compact submachine gun made short work of one of the survivors even as Gerhardt's more carefully-aimed shots ricocheted as well before several more found their mark to tear the other survivor to pieces through one of the notches at the side of the shield. The entire engagement had lasted less than five seconds from the first shot to the last shell casing hitting the ground, but had felt like hours to them.

"Holy shit! Did you see that?" Williams shouted as he brought the Hog around and continued driving. "We bulldozed those motherfuckers!"

"We bulldozed nothing," Brown said, taking over the role of their commanding officer since Blane hadn't made it to the station. "They were untrained amateurs."

"Compared to us, yeah!" Williams said with a whoop.

"Shut up, Hector. Keep your eyes on the damn road."

With barely a quarter of the magazine left, Gerhardt decided to err on the side of caution and recharge his assault rifle with a fresh mag as they drove along. Williams had placed his data pad on the dashboard of the Hog to get a live feed of the streets in conjunction with the GPS as he drove. Gerhardt was personally surprised that the GPS still worked. He thought that the Covenant would have probably tried to burn as many of the satellites as possible around Earth in order to blind them.

Much of what they saw of New Mombasa was oddly undamaged. True, there were places where the nose-searing stink of Covenant plasma was still heavy in the air along with wreckages of Militia vehicles, but they had yet to meet anything in terms of actual Covenant. The alien ship that seemed to blot out the sun didn't count. Almost as if taking on his silent dare, Gerhardt suddenly saw one of the ships flying over the city descend until it seemed like it was right on top of them. It was some sort of mid-sized thing, all smooth and bulbous lines with several weapons protruding from the underbelly. From his view, the ship seemed to be doing a search pattern.

"Hey, slow down," Gerhardt said. "We're making a dust trail they could see from orbit."

"Slow down? Slow down?" Williams laughed manically as he stomped on the accelerator. "I don't think that'll make much a difference here!"

He still kept his rifle trained on the ship pacing them, wishing that he had had the time and permission to draw one of the underslung M301 grenade launchers. Those would have at least given him a little extra peace of mind in this little slice of hell. Especially when the damned ship finally noticed them.

"You might want to put the hammer down," Gerhardt shouted to Williams as a stream of plasma turned the street behind them into a mass of molten asphalt and exploding cars. "I think they saw us!"

Amazingly, Williams was able to milk even more speed from their commandeered vehicle with the sight of the staccato bursts of plasma in the rear-view mirror to give him his motivation.

"Mack, give me your rifle! Take Hector's!" Brown shouted. "Hector, try shaking this bitch!"

Not one to argue, Gerhardt handed his assault rifle forward before picking up the much lengthier 99C-S2 Anti-Materiel Sniper Rifle System that Hector had stowed in the back as well. Brown wouldn't be able to maneuver with the bulky sniper rifle with him in the front, and his M7 wouldn't cut it. He performed a brass check on the rifle, only to find that Williams had followed the book and left the thing loaded but without a round in the chamber. It made sense, considering that the weapon didn't have a safety, but there were times where disregarding that little guideline proved to be useful. Like when one is being _chased by an alien gunship_.

He chambered the first round and took aim, settling the crosshairs of the electronic scope on the bulk of the ship. The scope itself automatically corrected for the minutiae needed to make a precise shot. None of the tactical officers had been briefed about any susceptibilities of Covenant equipment, let alone been allowed to inspect any of the captured materiel up close. From what he could see, there were four bulbous ports of some sort on the underside that were emitting a soft purple glow. An even larger port lay to its aft, which looked like it opened up into the guts of thing.

The glowing ports looked important for keeping the ship afloat, so Gerhardt lined up his first shot and prepared to stroke the trigger. With such a large surface, it would be impossible not to at least hit the underside despite all of the swerving with the Hog. He curled his finger around the trigger of the rifle, applying gradual pressure until the trigger gave and the padded butt of the rifle slammed against his shoulder.

His aim was true, the 14.4x114mm tungsten dart shucking its plastic spacing sabots as it broke the speed of sound to strike the underbelly of the ship. There had been complaints from the civilian watchdogs before about how their sniper rifle ammunition was geared too much towards penetration over stopping power. It was a fundamental quality of the shape and design of the flechette, and considering that what they had been issued was really just a repurposed anti-tank weapon, Gerhardt was inclined to agree. But he certainly wasn't now. Whatever alloy the ship was made of, it clearly wasn't tough enough to withstand approximately the kinetic energy of a speeding train focused on a point the size of a pinhead. The round punched into the guts of the ship even as Williams swerved their Hog around another parked car to avoid the bursts of plasma. Unfortunately, the tungsten flechette did little to even give the Covenant ship pause.

"Shoot the turret, you asshole! Shoot the turret!" Brown shouted, firing his assault rifle in chattering bursts, the 7.62x51mm slugs sparking off of the ship's nose.

"On it," Gerhardt murmured as he realigned his sights.

His second shot was already chambered thanks to the short-stroke gas piston that made the 99C one of the most highly prized semi-automatic precision weapons in the UNSC inventory. It was only a matter of lining his crosshairs up on the ship again. Despite being machined from naval-grade titanium, and despite the weight-saving cuts along much of the weapon, the sniper rifle was still quite heavy. Each shot's recoil knocked him off-target and forced him to realign. Only some sort of seven-foot tall giant who could bench-press a Hog could probably handle it without a problem.

On the brighter side, the actual turret was easy enough to pinpoint. The only problem was now just _making_ the shot. As if sensing this, Williams threw the Hog into an even higher gear to slip under the relative cover of one of the sector's many sequenced pedestrian bridges. They were near one of the many plazas that the city architects had seen fit to scatter around Mombasa Island during the reclamation. So now there was only plasma raining at a more staggered interval on them. It _had_ been getting closer as the gunners aboard the ship compensated. Gerhardt intended to make sure they wouldn't be able to bracket them completely. Now if only he could make the damn shot.

He braced himself against the edge of the Hog to provide a steady shooting platform and waited for his opportunity. To Williams's credit, he managed to stay several feet ahead of the plasma that the cannon was still spewing at them at the gap between each walkway. Steadying his breath, Gerhardt tried to ignore the smell of burning ozone and pavement that accompanied the plasma strikes. He wouldn't have just the one opportunity to make the shot, but it would be a great deal more comforting to have the damned plasma cannon out of the equation.

There.

This shot was possibly as close to perfect as could be. He felt the butt slam against his shoulder as the rifle fired. The shot actually tore straight through the chin-mounted turret, leaving a spray of greenish gas as it went on to punch into the fuselage behind it. He watched as the turret struggle to maintain a bead while still venting whatever it was that fueled the cannon. When it tried to fire, Gerhardt looked on with no small amount of satisfaction when the turret disengaged explosively from its mooring on the ship.

"Tagged it!" he shouted.

"Good for you, twinkletoes!" Williams called back. "Now could I please on the fucking roa-whoa!"

Gerhardt found himself being flung bodily forward, his helmet brim and visor the only things that kept him from planting his face against the windshield or dashboard of the Hog. He pushed himself back, about to curse loudly and profusely at Williams when he was pointed at the raging gun battle a block away.

A platoon of the city militia were engaging what looked to him like impossible odds. From the looks of things, they were covering an evacuation convoy from approximately a battalion-sized element of aliens, a mix of the lizard-birds and bigger ape-looking motherfuckers.

"Should we intervene?" Williams said, looking at Brown. "Our ROE isn't very specific about this sort of thing."

"Yes they are," Brown said after a moment of thought. "Dismount and move up to provide support. Stay close."

"Roger that," Wiliams said. "Mack, gimme the rifle."

"No arguments from me," Gerhardt said, passing the sniper rifle forward and received his assault rifle back in turn from Brown. "Thanks."

They clambered out of the Hog, weapons up and already sweeping for targets. New Mombasa had been a fairly peaceful city with wide-open public spaces and tightly packed offices. There had only been one riot during Gerhardt's tenure with the tactical unit, and that had really been more of an unruly demonstration. The NMPD SWAT teams' bread butter weren't those despite the amount of military-grade hardware they got to swing around. No, they specialized in the confines of buildings. Close-quarter battle was called for when dealing with Insurrectionist sympathizers who decided to hold the local Traxus office at gunpoint. That was where they excelled, not open spaces.

At least they weren't being shot at, which was always a a relief. You wanted to serve and protect, you joined the police, you wanted to get shot at, you joined the Colonial Militia if the regular UNSC Armed Forces didn't want you. Gerhardt was personally glad of the career choice. If he'd followed his buddies from high school into the Marines, he'd probably be dead like the rest of them in the mud of Jericho VII. No, he was perfectly happy with this job. And then the Covenant had to come in and fuck it all up.

"Friendlies coming up on your six!" Brown called to the militia over the COM. "NMPD!"

"Weren't you people still hiding in your offices?" one of the militiamen said, his voice distorted over the COM by a nearby plasma burst even as he turned his head to face them. "We need you to help cover the left-"

The soldier's words were cut off by his scream as well over a hundred kilowatts of plasma energy was dumped into the right side of his face. Flesh was instantly carbonized and then completely burned away with a section of his skull. Gerhardt watched as the corpse tumbled to the ground, dropping its MA5C assault rifle.

"Okay, left approach! Hector, Mack, set up at the corner," Brown shouted, pointing at the closest corner of the intersection even as he slung his M7 in favor of the dropped MA5C. He'd need the extra penetration power. "I'll cover!"

"You heard the man, let's move," Gerhardt said, slapping the top of Williams's helmet. "Third floor should cut it."

"Copy that," Williams said, already bounding over one of the instacrete barricades that the militia had erected. How he did that with the two satchels of ammunition, Gerhardt had a feeling he'd never know.

He followed the sniper to the relative cover of a blown-out storefront. Covenant plasma had also opened up a path into the boutique at the corner. It would provide them a clean line of sight over the battle. They had to move a counter out of the way to access the staircase, staying low to avoid any stray plasma or bullets that might have gone their way, bypassing a fireteam of militiamen on their way.

Thankfully it was only a short dash from there to the second floor where they found a good portion of the floor facing out toward the street just plain _missing_. From there Gerhardt could actually see the layout of the defenders against the aliens. The militia had arrayed themselves in two defensive echelons of riflemen and heavy weapons support angled inward, their positions reinforced with instacrete barricades and several smoldering car wrecks. It was a losing fight, considering that it was only about twenty men against an onslaught of Covenant soldiers that stretched beyond the next block. This was only going to be a holding action…

"Staircase is blocked," Williams said a moment later after checking out the rest of the floor. He slapped Gerhardt's shoulder, "Get tactical! We'll set up here."

Shaken from his momentary reverie, Gerhardt nodded and unslung his spotting scope to set up his half of the nest. Next to him, Williams had unfolded the bipod of the 99C and had settled for a prone position near the still-warm lip of the remaining space on the floor. From there it was only a quick jog through procedure to line his scope up with Williams's line of sight. The wireless connection did the rest of the work once he powered up the electronics package of his spotting scope, linking with Williams's scope.

"Scope up," Gerhardt said evenly and quietly, allowing his COM to pick up his voice instead of raising it to alert Williams.

"Rifle up," Williams said immediately after him.

"Engage! Engage!" Brown shouted, his assault rifle's chattering bursts audible over the COM.

"Copy. Engaging," Gerhardt said as he settled his sights on a red-armored alien, one of the split-chins. He was showing too much leadership potential to just be another battlefield grunt. "Sighting in now… Red split-chin, ninety meters ahead by the green car."

"I see him," Williams said. "Firing. How's the head, by the way?"

His rifle cracked, and Gerhardt saw a very faint blur before the alien collapsed after much of the back of its head exploded outward in a fine purplish mist, the air crackling and popping around it with a static discharge. The smaller aliens looked around in sudden confusion. They were in a perfect position here, looking almost straight down into the carnage.

"Good hit. New target. Red split-chin, east forty meters. The meds did the trick."

"Firing. Good to hear, I'd hate to have my spotter combat ineffective."

"Good hit. New target. Ogre, one twenty meters ahead. Remember-"

"Firing," Williams said, cutting him off.

"Good hit. New target. Ogre, one-oh-six meters ahead, charging. Looks like we pissed him off."

"Firing."

"Good hit. New target. Blue split-chin, east sixty meters. He's got one of those needle guns."

"I see him. Firing," Williams said, his rifle firing one last time. "Rifle down," he then said as he released the now empty extended magazine from the sniper rifle to load a new one.

"Displace," Brown said over the COM suddenly. "They're starting to get their bearings on you."

"Copy. Displacing," Gerhardt said, patting Williams's shoulder as a plasma cannon burst came dangerously close to their blind. "Come on."

His partner grunted and got to his feet.

"Have a plan?" he asked.

Gerhardt shrugged as he started moving, "I thought we'd make it up on the spot. Set up on the first floor?"

Williams chuckled as he followed him to the staircase. "It's as if there were a plan…"

* * *

Yep, plenty of references ahoy. This chapter is still technically incomplete, but give the highly compartmentalized way I'm going about with it, there will the the occasional fluctuations in chapter size as I throw in other people's posts. As it is, I'm already falling behind on putting stuff out. But such is the way of life I suppose. Expect "intelligence files" soon as well. And to see much more of the 'Sraomees. Or not. You know how chaotic it got during the October of 2552.

Update: Chapter has been completed. If you watched The Unit, you should probably be gnashing your teeth, but I needed some names quickly. And what better way than to steal *ahem* _borrow_ from somewhere reputable? A few errors here and there were fixed up, some parts tweaked. Next chapter's including a slight break from the action in New Mombasa. Maybe I should have just called this piece "The Battle of Earth" instead... Also, I am _sick_ and _tired_ of people using the term "clips" to describe magazines. DO YOU IDIOTS SEE A GARAND OR SKS LAYING ABOUT SOMEWHERE? No? Then it's a fracking magazine.


	3. Chapter II

M.A.R.I.N.E.S.

- Ancient United States Navy saying.

* * *

**Approaching Orbital Defense Platform "Athens", Geosynchronous orbit over Athens, Earth**

**0920 Military Standard Time**

It was going to be glorious. Commander Hatam 'Sraomee turned to look at his command. Twenty-four of the finest Rangers he'd ever had the pride of knowing, all of them ready and willing to do the Prophets' bidding. Their cause was just, their aim sure. They would cleanse these heretics from the station before destroying it. Somewhat redundant, but 'Sraomee was not one to question a chance to fight.

His Ranger unit had been separated into boarding craft, not precisely what they had in mind originally. The Rangers were in charge of external security, specialists who had an affinity for using the antigravity packs to eliminate interlopers attempting to cut their way aboard their ship through the hull. They were fully capable of mounting an assault on the human space station without the assistance of these boarding craft.

"Our brothers will be breaching storage compartments," he said suddenly, raising his voice so that the Rangers in the back of the formation could hear him without resorting to their communications suite. "They will be entering uncontested. But that is not the way _we_ do things, is it, Rangers? What are true Sangheili supposed to be?"

"Surrounded!" the Rangers bellowed in unison, slamming their plasma rifles against their thoracic cages simultaneously, the sound echoing in the confines of the boarding craft.

"We will make contact in approximately a quarter unit, Commander," their pilot said suddenly over the unit Battle Network. "Cutters are primed."

It was times like this where 'Sraomee wished for a screen to be installed, so he could at least see where the boarding craft was. A view of space was better than being packed into a windowless compartment, trusting your fate to a pilot and the Prophets. He checked the holographic displays playing across his eye coverings. All of the seals of his armor were functioning correctly, and his rifle was reading as fully charged.

"Quarter unit to contact," he said over the battlenet to his Rangers. "Ready arms."

One of the things that still bewildered 'Sraomee was how, despite the largely solid-state nature of their weapons, the Rangers were always capable of coaxing sounds from their rifles and assorted weapons. That certainly had not been on any of the curriculum of the Ranger qualification course, or at least not the one that he had earned his armor in.

"Remember your role in this, Rangers!" he bellowed to them. "Remember your training. But most importantly, remember your blood! Your brothers are going to have to rely on you, and you your brothers! Do not disappoint them!"

The Rangers roared as one again, raising their rifles in the air.

"Commander," he suddenly heard over the battlenet. It was Lance Commander Varak 'Wattinree, one of the rock-steady constants of his command. He could always be relied to speak his mind no matter the circumstances, as well as provide sound tactical insights when needed.

"Speak your mind, Varak 'Wattinree," he said.

"We are approaching a human defensive satellite, correct?" 'Wattinree asked, his voice expressing no small measure of doubt. "To board it? And then to deliver our package?" He pointed at the long lozenge-shape of the antimatter charge that they had been charged with protecting and then delivering.

"That would be correct, Lance Commander," 'Sraomee said.

"And are we not Rangers? Is our mission not to engage these heretics in the embrace of the vacuum?"

"And your point to this inquisition, Lance Commander?" he asked as he walked back toward where 'Wattinree's lance was seated.

"I merely must say that this is an affront to our warrior spirit," 'Wattinree said. "Are the Field Masters unversed in basic tactics?"

"So you would suggest a trial, Lance Commander?" 'Sraomee asked, feeling himself smile reflexively. "Perhaps march them out behind the Unggoy methane chambers and give them a single bolt to the back of their head?"

"Perhaps that may be best," 'Wattinree said, chuckling and shaking his head. "Our Prophet's pipe must be hot to the touch from all of the hookah tobacco."

'Sraomee cuffed 'Wattinree's shoulder just hard enough to remind him of the chain of command. "I trust that we will keep any dissenting opinions about our leaders' guidance to ourselves?"

"Certainly. Just high spirits amongst the men, sir," he said.

"Good. But remember our task," 'Sraomee said. "I need to check with-"

He was cut off by the pilot again, accompanied by a bump that shook everyone within the boarding craft. "Commander, we are about to initiate cutting. Deactivating shield."

'Sraomee gave a final nod to his Lance Commander and headed back to the front of the compartment. It would take only moments for the rotating plasma cutters mounted on the boarding tube of the craft to cycle up and begin burning through the bulkhead of the alien hull. He turned to his men one last time.

"Rangers, remember!" he began, raising his plasma rifle. "The eyes of the Prophets are upon you! Fight with honor so we may all meet again for the Great Journey! Victory is ours, for the Covenant!"

"For the Covenant! For honor!" the Rangers responded in turn.

"Bulkhead breached," the pilot said over the battlenet. "Lords be with you, Commander."

'Sraomee turned and roared at his Rangers, "Come, brothers! We shall grind them into dust! First Lance with me! Second and Third will follow! Fourth Lance protects our entryway!"

Stalking forward to the end of the boarding tube, he fell in with the stack-up of First Lance. Ranger Kela 'Chavamee performed the breach by delivering a swift kick to the cut metal. It flew backwards and he was immediately knocked back by a number of impacts against his shields. A storm of human fire started to fly inwards into the boarding tube, stopped only by the selectively permeable shield behind them. 'Sraomee flattened himself against the wall of the tube with the rest of his Rangers.

"Grenade out!" 'Chavamee shouted as he flung a primed plasma grenade into the breach from his prone position.

One of the humans on the other side shouted something before the grenade detonated with a flash of cleansing blue plasma. First Lance immediately moved in through the breach, their rifles firing bursts of plasma bolts into the human defenders. 'Sraomee followed, his plasma rifle tracking over the smoldering corpses. The air smelled of discharged plasma and what might have been cooked meat. It had been a month since he'd last had a proper meal that wasn't reconstituted from protein blocks and the stores aboard the fleet. The meat they had hunted aboard the agricultural ships tasted off no matter how it was prepared-

He shook his head in a violent sinuous motion to banish his thoughts of hunger, silently cursing his own frailty. He didn't need to eat, he was about to lay waste to a hive of heretics.

The area they had cut into looked much like some sort of commons area. Dozens of screens filled the large room, each broadcasting a different sight. Some showed footage of the very station they were boarding while others showed images of the planet below, blue and sparkling. There were seats scattered throughout, but there seemed to be no heretics to kill. His fingers tightened around the grip of his rifle, hard enough to make the bindings creak.

"Room cleared, Commander," Lance Commander Poma 'Fulsamee said, bringing Second Lance back around after a sweep.

"Good," 'Sraomee said with a nod. "'Konaree, Fourth Lance will erect our shield generators and bring out the package. 'Wattinree, take Third Lance to-"

He saw his personal shield discharge before his eyes before he felt the impact of the burst of human rifle rounds. The shield stripped the rounds of any lethal kinetic energy instantaneously, the crackling discharge still explosive enough to jolt him and knock him over like 'Chavamee. The icon on his eyepieces indicated that the effort had drained no small amount of power from his armor.

'Wattinree reacted first, diving to shield him. "Protect the Commander!" he shouted. "By that counter!"

The Rangers opened fire as one, their plasma rifles firing as one to suppress the enemy. Blue-white plasma streamed over his head to chew into what might have been a kiosk. The metal and ceramic construction came apart under the super-heated bolts, turning into stringy globs of molten metal and ceramic. A human screamed incoherently as their fire finally breached the flimsy walls and seared his flesh and bones into base carbon. The entire engagement took only moments. He'd drilled his Rangers well.

"Area secured," Ranger Quoc 'Sraomee said. "_All_ threats neutralized."

"By my blood," Lance Commander 'Fulsamee said as 'Sraomee got back to his feet. "I could not possibly expunge my-"

"Lance Commander, neither the blame nor the failure falls upon you," 'Sraomee said as he held his hand up to stop the lance commander while he walked over to investigate the remains. "The fault lays solely with me. I was lax in my duties and neglected to recheck your assertion. The human was well-hidden. No oblation is needed nor is it desired, Lance Commander."

'Fulsamee bowed his head, "Commander, I do not know what to say."

"Remember the teachings," 'Sraomee said to the lance commander. "According to our station, all without exception. Now let us continue our most holy of works. Third Lance, breach that bulkhead door," he then said, pointing at the door that his translation software had worked out to lead to a security station. "Ranger 'Chavamee, you are combat ready?"

"Thank the Lords and our shielding for that," 'Chavamee said as he checked the charge of his rifle, his tone surprisingly flippant.

That was another luxury that the modern warriors had. When Hatam and Ronal had first entered the service, their armor, shielding, and electronic sub-systems were absolutely crude when compared to the modern Sangheili warrior's equipment. Any language unspoken by the Sangheili required the San 'Shyuum to "bequeath" one of their translator units to assist. Now they had the same translation software integrated into their helmets, their shields recharged much faster, and the armor itself was significantly stronger.

The Rangers arrayed themselves in an open V-shape and activated their antigravity packs, or more accurately increased the power feed for their packs so they were bobbing ever so slightly a half-unit off of the floor. 'Sraomee maneuvered himself into a higher position several units off of the ground, and a good unit over the head of his command.

"First and Second Lance, stack up," he commanded.

They complied, breaking their formation into two stacks on both sides of the door. Third Lance finished setting up their charges on the frame of the door and stepped back. A blinking icon appeared on 'Sraomee's displays, his link to the detonators. He turned his head to look at both sides of the door to make sure his Rangers were a safe distance from the plasma charges.

"Detonating in three, two, one, _breach breach breach_," he said, triggering the charges at "one".

Six breaching charges detonated as one, exploding in muted blue flashes that burned into and then through the thick metal of the hatch. It then fell free to the floor still sizzling and dripping molten metal even as First and Second Lance streamed through the opening. 'Sraomee followed close behind with Third Lance. They fanned out into the corridor with their rifles up and sweeping for threats.

"Stay on-task, Rangers," he said evenly. "Humans do tend to appear out of the most surprising of places."

Almost as if responding to that, Ranger 'Sraomee along with much of Second Lance collapsed under a flurry of human small arms fire as the corridor became a deadly channel. Their shielding sparked and flashed under the fusillade until they collapsed from overloads, leaving their wearers vulnerable. Bullets tore through Rangers 'Cronlunee and 'Wamikee, their blood spraying onto their comrades as they moved to shield them in their last moments.

Once their armor registered that their wearers' hearts had stopped, all of the systems immediately purged and self-destructed. Their antigravity units cut out along with the other subsystems of their suit to let them collapse onto the deck. 'Sraomee watched as three more Rangers, Tavas 'Nosolee, Ryat 'Nbekee, and Wozna 'Refumee fell from the air, no longer buoyed by their antigravity units. The other Rangers were already reaction, falling back from the fire. Taking a hurried image capture of the end of the corridor, 'Sraomee followed suit.

They piled back into the room they had just exited, two of the Rangers trailing blood behind them, their shields compromised. 'Sraomee linked the capture to the others' displays. It showed a rough approximation of the humans' fighting positions at the end of the corridor, the blurred picture better than nothing.

"Two rangers on each target," he said, highlighting the humans. "Show them no mercy, on my command."

The surviving Rangers nodded, several of them palming grenades. 'Sraomee hefted one of his own and stroked the priming icon inscribed on the band encircling the diameter of the grenade. It flared to life, the internal mechanism activating the grenade's store of plasma and beginning the cannibalization of the skin of the device to create the primary explosive. Pale blue wisps curled from the surface of the grenade as he held it. Waiting for the last moment, he then turned around the corner to fling the grenade at the humans' fighting position before ducking back. Two more Rangers flung their own grenades down the corridor before retreating again.

The grenade lost containment moments after he let go. He heard it detonate, filling the corridor with roiling blue plasma, searing high-gloss enamel from the bulkheads and igniting or outright melting anything that had been knocked loose by the initial salvo. The other Rangers moved in even before the blast had fully dissipated, swarming through the mist with their rifles already firing.

Their anti-gravity units added a certain edge to shipboard combat, 'Sraomee reflected as he followed the initial wave through the corridor toward the humans. The improvised fighting positions were mere distractions when they had the advantage of anti-gravity. But the humans did know how to fight. Their fire was still coherent despite the detonations, their tracers spraying out in a controlled hose-like manner that swatted one Ranger from the air. 'Sraomee felt one of the humans' slugs skip off of his shield as he barreled down on them.

He fired a burst downwards into one defender, the blue-white plasma first melting through the human's armor with a spray of burning drops of molten alloy. The rest of the burst then seared into and through its flesh, igniting hair and fat. He redirected his fire onto another of the humans even as he shot past the burning corpse. The Rangers who had taken point had done an excellent job in clearing the position. Total engagement time was a little less than thirty seconds. He had trained his Rangers well, indeed.

Allowing himself a moment to catch his breath, 'Sraomee drifted back down to the floor. "Lance Commander 'Konaree, bring our honored dead back to the ship," he said as he kicked one of the human weapons to the side in case the creature was only pretending that the hole seared through its neck had been lethal. "All other Lance Commanders, initiate sweep and clear of the objective room. I will be with Third Lance for the duration of the action. Second Lance, you have the honor."

First Lance had been halved in strength by that brief firefight, and Third had been badly mauled as well. The Rangers had either been torn apart by the fire or were too grievously injured to continue the fight. 'Sraomee would write up most if not all of them for citations for bravery. It was the least he could do for warriors so willing to plunge into the unknown.

Kicking off of the deck, 'Sraomee scanned over the unit battlenet. Reports of the other Ranger teams were filtering in. They had been coming under fire but were making fairly good time. Only one of the anti-matter charges needed to be onboard the heretics' orbital for its destruction, but it paid to make certain. Only one more section had to be cleared now before they could turn this space station and its heretical builders into so much base carbon drifting in the void. He suddenly heard news of his brother-Commander's teams making a successful delivery.

Combat aboard vessels and orbitals was always short and brutal. If the engagement's victors were particularly lucky, they would not have sustained too many losses from having to fight in such enclosed spaces. The Rangers' antigravity packs lent them a degree of surprise, but they were still fighting in an enclosed space that limited the extra mobility granted by their equipment. There was a good reason why they were better suited for combat in space, but what the Prophets said was law itself. And to go against the will of the Prophets was heresy. Commander 'Sraomee was a loyal warrior for the Covenant, true to the teachings and words. He _would_ kill these heretics, and he _would_ burn this orbital and the planet below into cinders.

Lance Commander 'Fulsamee spoke to him, "Preparing to breach, Commander."

Second Lance had arrayed themselves to breach and had a frame-cutting charge set up on the hatch. With only partial intelligence, it helped to err on the side of caution. The fact that the Prophets had made no specific demands for capturing any of the heretics made their job easier. They had their rifles ready and trained on the door, Second and Third stacked to enter on both sides of the room.

"_Breach, breach, breach,_" 'Sraomee said. "Weapons free."

The charge detonated, another flare of blue-white that quickly and cleanly cut through the hatch. A moment after the edges of the door cooled, they swarmed through the opening. Second Lance had turned right while 'Sraomee and Third Lance turned left. They swam through the air of the room, rifles trained on assigned sectors. And their sectors were _filled_ with humans. He squeezed the trigger of his plasma rifle and watched as the heretics were burned, some to literal ashes, by their combined fire.

Several Rangers had cast grenades into the middle of the crowd, which went off to burn and tear apart even more of the heretics as they tried fighting back. 'Sraomee felt several dull impacts against his shields. Human projectile weapons again. He had to admire their fighting spirit. Even when the tables were utterly turned again them, they continued to fight. Unrealistic but it certainly showed a willingness to fight, something to be fostered and encouraged. He'd have to see about sending some of the footage from their cameras back to the war academies of Sanghelios as an example for the cadets.

With both the advantage of height and shielding, their fight would be a short one. Rangers were not intended to be used as boarders, but 'Sraomee certainly saw the benefits now. He walked a burst into a uniformed human even as another burst of low-caliber rounds grazed his shields to draw sparks. This was far too easy. Suddenly, silence. They had cleared the room, leaving only a mass of seared human corpses on the floor.

"Clear," he heard over the battlenet, repeated by all of the Rangers.

"Sound off, any injuries?" 'Sraomee asked. None. It was a clean sweep. "Third Lance, secure the room. First Lance, bring the package in."

After a moment's wait, First Lance's remnants brought their "package" into the room on an antigravity cushion produced by the miniature units built into its prongs. They had received basic instruction on how to arm the antimatter charge after the antigravity units had been deactivated. Once it was set down, 'Sraomee walked over and ran a hand over the charge's slick purple alloy casing before settling his hand onto the small palm-reader built into the side of the Sangheili-sized explosive device. That in turn activated a smaller panel with illuminated glyphs. He tapped the appropriate symbols, the traditional words to the Ritual of Due Contrition. Who said that their higher-ups did not have a sense of humor?

"Charge is armed," he said, turning to his Rangers. "Fall back for immediate-"

He was cut off by his shields explosively overloading as a thin tungsten flechette tore through them and the side of his neck. Stumbling, he fell backwards with a hand clasped over the injury to apply pressure and hopefully prevent himself from bleeding out too quickly. Around him, the Rangers reacted as one again in search of the hidden shooter. He was dimly aware of debris and body parts being gradually lifted from the deck around him. They picked up speed as he watched, all gravitating toward a single point in the glass above them. He could just barely make out the spray of decompression-evacuated glass outside of the module they were in. The sharpshooter was located well outside of range.

"Check suit integrity," he rasped, his hold tightening around his wound and armor layers. "Sniper is outside."

"Vacuum drill!" 'Wattinree shouted. "We're-Sniper spotted! Superstructure above us! Evacuate immediately!"

Another of his Rangers, Delo 'Kasamee stumbled as his shields flashed, his hands flying to his thoracic cage armor, deformed by a high-velocity flechette that had punched through. Quoc 'Sraomee grabbed 'Kasamee and pulled him back toward the exit. 'Sraomee felt himself being grabbed by a pair of Rangers and dragged out of the room as well.

They bundled him back to the waiting boarding craft and laid him out near the bodies of his fallen Rangers. Ranger Uhri 'Crolunee, their medic, applied a self-sealing compress to his wound and sat him up to make room for further wounded. 'Sraomee grunted and got back onto his feet with some effort. The right side of his armor was slick with his blood, and even the slightest of movements made his head swim. For once he was thankful of the stopgap treatments available to them.

"Beginning undocking procedures, Commander," the pilot said. "Last Ranger is aboard. We are cleared for return. One unit to charge detonation."

"Maintain the shield, but do not close the bulkhead. I wish to see this," he said to the pilot.

"Affirmative, Commander," the pilot said. "Now undocked."

Several Rangers joined him at the front of the boarding craft as it smoothly detached from its improvised docking port while spooling its connective membrane back in. The orbital slowly shrunk as the pilot accelerated to get out of range of the blast. He could see the other boarding craft the task force departing as well, all making good time to avoid being within the diameter of the detonation. Reports started filtering in of an eighty-percent success rate amongst the task force in delivering their charges. More than enough to deal with the heretics. Commander 'Zazamee had been badly maimed by an explosion and had died approximately a quarter-unit ago. At least he had died a warrior.

Time seemed to slow just as 'Sraomee's displays counted down to zero. He watched as the orbital was suddenly engulfed in white light that grew from within. When the containment fields isolating the antimatter was deactivated, the antimatter spent no time dawdling before interacting with the positive matter it suddenly found itself surrounded by. The meeting of the two resulted in an instant decomposition of the matter to release a photonic pulse and entire rest mass being converted into pure kinetic energy. Surviving defenders had only a second at most to cheer their "victory" before they were literally obliterated by the blast of what would equivalently be ten megatons of TNT going off around the platform. The combined detonations did not rock the orbital defense platform, it merely seemed to dissolve into silent light as the Covenant forces flew back towards their carriers. There was an invasion going on, and Hatam 'Sraomee did not intend on missing it.

* * *

**UNSC Five Rounds Rapid Bridge, Lunar Orbit, Earth**

**0940 Military Standard Time**

Dropping out of Slipspace was always a bit of a rough time for some people. Dropping out of Slipspace into a raging battle was not making Rear Admiral (Upper Half) Jalila Chavez's day any easier. Even as the bridge's displays were coming online after the Slipspace-induced overload, they might as well have painted their screens over with the contents of the latrines for clearer results. There was no way there were seven thousand _individual_ signatures for individual craft, was there? Even Reach at its un-glassed busiest counted at most several hundred ships in orbit at a time. And the amount of sound begin pumped out on the UNSC command frequencies was deafening. Covenant, _here_? Wasn't the Protocol supposed to protect them from this?

The bridge was buzzing with alarms and worried chatter. One of the benefits of crewing a _Marathon_-class cruiser was a large amount of personal space. Unlike the cramped frigates, the crew had their stations spaced out at a decent distance from each other. Close enough to get around in a hurry, but wide enough to maintain the illusion of not having someone breathing down your neck as you worked. Seated at the center of the room, she had a good view of the primary consoles as well as several miniature displays mounted on her seat.

Rubbing her brow, she then spoke, "Chester, isolate signatures. Group into battlegroups and formations. Screen out all fast-movers outside of a kilometer."

"I shall, shall I, Admiral?" Chester's avatar said, his voice dripping with cheery condescension. The shipboard "smart" AI had issues working with "subordinates". "Oh dear me. The entire Home Fleet's out for the ball," he said. "I've taken the liberty of pre-warming our MAC coils for a full-load and keying our Archer and rocket units. Archer systems stand currently at ninety-percent starboard, eighty-seven-percent port, ninety-three-percent dorsal, and eighty-two-percent ventral. Rockets are all armed and awaiting your command."

"That's what I like to hear, Chester," Chavez said with a grim smile. "Tactical One, alert to both MACs to load one round. Tactical Two, alert me when the Archers are fully online. Tactical Three, notify hot-bay that I'd like at least one of our babies ready at best speed. Navigation, maintain current position. Comms, sound general quarters and patch me into the shipwide frequency." She felt a plan coming on… When Lieutenant Thom Winters gave her a thumbs-up from his communications console, she cleared her throat and began to speak. "Attention, crew of the _UNSC Five Rounds Rapid_. This is Admiral Jalila Chavez speaking. Rise and shine, boys and girls, 'cause Auntie Jay has some good and bad news." Chances were that HIGHCOM would get their knickers in a bunch about her way of addressing her command. Fuck 'em. She was the one with four stars pinned on her shoulders. "Bad news first. Leave's been cancelled, on account of the alien bastards. Which brings me to the good news.

"We are, in old military parlance, in a 'target-rich environment', which for those of you jarheads down below who still can't read, we can't turn left or right without bumping into a Covenant ship. This is _good_. This means _we can't miss_." She smiled reflexively. "Now I'd like to have a little vote here. All not in favor of kicking some Covenant ass, say 'nay'." There was a silence that was punctuated by Lieutenant Namir Park's uncontrollable sniggering. "Now all in favor of kicking ass and taking names, say 'aye' or forever hold your peace."

There was a brief second before Chavez literally heard their response. A _Marathon_-class cruiser was one thousand, one hundred and ninety meters long, and had a complement of well over five thousand souls. And that was not including their complement of a battalion of Marines and half of an entire Army regiment which added well over ten thousand more voices. Combined, their voices penetrated the thirty-four decks of the _Five Rounds Rapid_ as something akin to a bass rumble.

"That's what I like to hear," she said when things quieted down. "Sword Squadron, stand ready. I want you Devil Dogs prepped in case the Covenant try something stupid. And you Army boys better not steal any of our silverware, hear? Your ass is riding in Navy equipment, and you'd better behave. Break a leg, boys and girls, Auntie Jay, out." She waved for Winters to shut off the intercom. When he did, she spoke again. "Comms, alert the rest of the battlegroup. Keep it short and to the point. Maintain course and speed with _Five Rounds Rapid_, and engage independently only if your ship is openly threatened. I'd like to keep our group alive and well."

Winters nodded and tapped out a message that would be sent to the other ships of Battlegroup S-5929. The captains were not idiots, otherwise Chavez would have had them long transferred to somewhere where their actions wouldn't endanger their crew. She trusted them, but a reminder was always needed with her looser command style. Their destroyer escort flourished under looser reins, but tended to abandon their positions when a choice target presented itself.

"Give the order for Sword Squadron to get ready," she said suddenly as she read the computer readouts in front of her. "Thom, open a secure channel to HIGHCOM." She started speaking the moment the lieutenant gave her a thumbs-up. "HIGHCOM, HIGHCOM, this is UNSC _Five Rounds Rapid_ of Battlegroup Sierra-5929. Say again, HIGHCOM, this is UNSC _Five Rounds Rapid_ of Battlegroup Sierra-Five-Niner-Two-Niner. It looks like you have a little illegal alien problem."

"_Five Rounds Rapid_, this is HIGHCOM Bravo-Six Control," the response returned after a moment. Background noise indicated a chaotic control center. "Good to have you back. Battlegroup Delta-Seven is in need of relief. Check coordinates as follows."

A stream of numbers flashed across one of her seat's screens. Lieutenant Fries bobbed his head, confirming at his navigation console that he had received the coordinates as well.

"HIGHCOM, HIGHCOM, _Five Rounds Rapid_. We have received coordinates and will make best speed," she said. "Will there be anything else?"

"Negative, _Five Rounds Rapid_. Will keep you apprised. HIGHCOM out."

The screens swam as Fries deftly pushed the _Five Rounds Rapid_ into a new bearing for one of the sleek purple shapes of a formation of Covenant cruisers that was in the process of trying taking apart a flight of Longswords. This was easy. They knew how to take care of the Covenant.

"You know the drill, folks," Chavez said. "Tactical One, firing solution for the CCS-class designate Hotel-Seven-One-Two-Seven-November. Both barrels. Tactical Three, make sure our fifties' brains are warmed up in case some 'raph jockey tries something stupid. Comm, tell 'em we're going to shark these bastards good."

She leaned back in her seat and took the sight in. Naval battles had changed since the old days of the blue-water navy. Most of the combat she'd cut her teeth on was beyond visual-range plinking of Innie ships. MACs had been overkill then. Now with the Covenant and their shields made things more sporting. Naval policy was to stagger the MAC shots if the captain was fortunate enough to have more than one gun available to them. It kept one line charged and loaded just in case. From Chavez's experience only a few days ago, those policy makers had been full of shit. Staggered fire was a nice way of maintaining fire superiority. On other hand, it also gave the Covenant ships' a chance for their shielding to regenerate. So if the opportunity presented itself, she was giving them both barrels at once. Besides, what was HIGHCOM going to do to an _admiral_?

Lieutenant Joanna al-Egypti was finished with her firing solution rather quickly, and it showed. One of the secondary displays showed the intersect of both rounds into and through the CCS-class cruiser. Good enough.

"Tactical One, you are free to fire."

Al-Egypti tapped the command in immediately. "Shot. Line One, Line Two, cleared. Loaded. Now charging."

Even through the decks of the _Five Rounds Rapid_, she could still hear and feel the dual discharges. The _Marathon_-class cruiser shook as its two spinal Magnetic Accelerator Cannons discharged simultaneously. It would take fifty seconds for their firing coils to recharge, a sight better than the older frigates which had never been updated with recyclers. But that was still far too long, considering the situation.

"Good hits. Charge at eighty percent," Chester said unnecessarily.

The two massive projectiles had traversed the distance rapidly and struck the Covenant warship amidships. No dice. Chavez could see its shields discharge as they absorbed the impacts head-on as it turned to face them. It's mistake. Almost immediately, she could see the silvery blur of seventeen MAC rounds shooting past the _Five Rounds Rapid_. Her battlegroup was just as eager to engage on her orders. Three destroyers, a _Phoenix_-class refit, and six frigates could put out a lot of hurt. The CCS was hammered by six more MAC rounds, its shielding overloading after the third and its spine breaking after the fifth round. That had certainly gotten the other ships' attention. A stream of purple poured from their bays. Seraphs.

Chavez leaned forward like a predator straining for its prey. "Tactical Three, I want a status report on our gift packages. Tactical Two, arm and ready Archers Three through Seven. Tactical One, prepare a firing solution for whichever of the bogies is closest. Chester, tell Sword Squadron to get their asses into the catapults," she said. "I think I like these odds."

* * *

**UNSC Five Rounds Rapid Galley, Earth Orbit**

**0943 Military Standard Time**

"Nice rifle, Devil Dog," someone called. "Does it make fries?"

One of the fundamental differences between the UNSC's Army and Marine Corps, Staff Sergeant Nathan Sands decided, was selection of gear. The Marines had their MA5-series assault rifles, fully customizable with no small number of accessories. Upgraded and updated, the Marines' equipment made them an effective quick-response force, able to go anywhere and kill everything they met. In contrast, Sands' own MA37 ICWS was practically a museum piece. You wanted the best and newest equipment? Join the Marines. The Army rolls along with what they have.

They had been cooped up together for the past week in the guts of the Navy cruiser for the trip back to Earth for some R&R after the month-long campaign out in what had been the outer colonies. Tensions had run fairly high with the customary rivalry between the two services. But then around the third day, they came to startling revelation that the Navy saw them as all M.A.R.I.N.E.S. one and the same. "My Ass Rides In Navy Equipment, Sir" indeed.

Sands looked around when the ship boomed and shook. It sounded like someone took a giant hammer to the cruiser from where he was sitting.

"Just the MACs firing," one of the Marines said dismissively. "Looks like we're in for some fun."

They returned to packing their equipment. The Marines and the troopers of the Ninth Armored Reconnaissance Regiment and Twenty-first Rangers had been bullshitting earlier about past operations, and some still were comparing kill-counts as well. This was supposed to be an R&R stop for the Army unit, one of the few they were allowed having been rotated in from the frontlines. The campaign on Ballast had been the latest in a long line of promised "last engagements" for the Regiment of battle-weary infantrymen. They had been assured that they would be relieved after the third month of the campaign. One month after that, Battlegroup S-5929 had finally managed to break through the Covenant's planetary interdiction.

It had been a hard seven months on Ballast. Sands had encountered far too many mass execution sites where Covenant commanders had decided to save plasma and let their forces _feed_. By the last month of the campaign, he had been sustained only by the strength-enhancing circuitry built into his armor and a near-constant diet of stimulants. Going door-to-door had taken its toll on the men as they were gradually ground down fighting the alien bastards. The regiment was now a battalion short of men from throughout their ranks. He tried hard not to think about the men he'd known.

It was a fine policy to practice combat loading. The vital things went in last so they'd be first when you needed them. Ammo, then explosives, and _then_ rations, unlike the Marines who liked ammo, ammo, and more ammo. The UNSC Marine Corps traveled light, carrying only what they would need for short-range incursions, skimping on armor and significant firepower in favor of speed. The UNSC Army made sure everyone had _everything_ they could possibly use. The Marines were the darting assassin's knife that was deftly plunged between the ribs with infinite sharpness while the Army was the barbarian's battle-axe that severed limbs purely by merit of brute force. It was an imperfect analogy but quite true in many cases.

Finished loading his field pack, Sands then began the process of getting into full battle rattle. It was here again that another difference appeared between the Army and Marines. The Marines had their up-to-date M52B body armor. Light and compact but protective, the armored vest was designed with a full-range of mobility in mind. Army researchers believed in designing armor from a different approach. Sands's M30 ballistic armor went the complete other direction in terms of size. It was a carapace-like arrangement of fourteen plates of heavy thermal-dispersive ballistic armor that protected everything from his neck down to his family jewels. Compared to a fully armed and armored Army infantryman, a Marine looked like they were completely naked.

It was actually surprisingly still more comfortable than the Marines' gear. However, the Marines _did_ get leg protection. All they had were light-weight carbon fiber inserts for their thighs. He pulled his ballistic plate armor on and set the clasps. A moment after he tapped the power button on one of his gauntlet-mounted displays, he felt the interior of his armor inflate subtly to improve its fit as the inner membranes were pumped with shock-absorbing hydrostatic gel.

His helmet went on last, he lowered it like a crown onto his head before snapping the connectors shut. The neural interface lattice that had been implanted years ago at the base of his skull started up again once bathed with the specific radio frequency used by his armor's wireless connections. Picking up his unloaded MA37, he aimed at the floor and swept the muzzle around slightly to double-check the interface's cross-hairs function. Green.

Taking a loaded magazine, he fed it into the magazine well and pulled the bolt handle back to chamber a round before safing it. Good. The interface overlay with his tactical goggles lit up with a running ammunition counter. He'd heard rumors and jokes before about how their interfaces made combat much like old twentieth and twenty-first century games, but he rarely thought about it even with the entertainment centers he had visited through the years. The holographic overlay part partially projected by lasers onto his retinas, and partially a product of the neural interface. Either way, it made shooting from the hip something more than just something from bad action holo-movies.

Secondary health monitors also read green along with the armor diagnostics. Despite the time they had spent onboard, Sands, nor the other infantrymen, had had a chance to get repairs for their ballistic armor. Filament-like sensors embedded in their armor gave a constantly-updating report on the temperature and stress of the armor plates.

Fully armored-up, Sands resembled more a robot than an infantryman. He slung his assault rifle over his shoulder and sat back down at the table to continue chatting with the mixed group of Marine and Army NCOs. Nothing else they could really do until further orders came through.

"Any of you guys saw action on New Harmony?" he asked. "Just thought that I'd ask."

One of the Marine NCOs nodded, spinning his M6C on the table. "Capital. You?"

"Zegema Beach," he said. "Me and Moe here," he slapped the shoulder pad of Staff Sergeant Moe Briggs. "Got the scars to prove it, too."

The shipframe audibly creaked as the Marine spoke. "Always good to meet a fellow veteran."

"Aren't we all?" Sands asked with a faint smile. "Say, is this creaking stuff normal?"

"Admiral likes high-G maneuvers," the NCO said with a shrug. "Fairborne," he then said, extending his hand.

"Sands," he said, taking it.

* * *

**New Mombasa Quays, New Mombasa, Earth**

**0940 Military Standard Time**

Private Todd Wainwright hissed in annoyance as a plasma bolt flew right past him, close enough to raise a line of blistered flesh along his cheek. It dug a two-inch pit into the hastily-constructed T-wall behind his fighting position outside of the loading docks. He fired his old MA3 in short four-round bursts to conserve ammunition while putting down what had to be the tenth wave of Covenant soldiers in the last ten minutes. He hadn't signed up with the Colonial Militia for _this_.

The Quays loading stations were by practically every definition overrun. The mix of Militia soldiers and NMPD officers had already had to fall back to their third hastily-constructed defensive line. One more and they would be fighting inside the dock facilities. A choking dust filled the air, a combination of burning corpses, half-melted ceramics and metals, and the nose-searing odor left by Covenant plasma weapons.

"Hold the line! Not one of those alien fuckers gets through!" Captain Foster shouted from his position near the end of the defensive line.

Nobody needed to be reminded why they could not fall yet with the two dozen vehicles packed into the loading areas. They were filled with Mombasa residents who were supposed to have been evacuated five minutes ago. If their line collapsed or fell, there was nothing between them and the Covenant. Wainwright had heard something about the UNSC Navy coming in to provide support, but it didn't seem likely that they'd arrive soon enough. He fired another burst to cut down one of the vulture-looking aliens before his rifle cycled dry. Smacking the magazine release, he let the steel magazine fall to his feet while slamming a fresh magazine into place. Two magazines left.

Next to him, Private Mel Takeshi screamed as his left arm was neatly seared off mid-bicep by Covenant plasma. It hit the ground, but he maintained his fire on the advancing Covenant forces, somehow overcoming the shock and pain. His MA3 fire was less concentrated since he had to fire from his hip, but he managed to take quite a few aliens down with each protracted burst thanks to the help from his neural interface. The bolt cycled dry in seconds.

"Todd, I need a reload!" he shouted, ducking back down behind cover. "I need a reload!"

Wainwright stumbled back as a plasma bolt clipped his armored vest, leaving a glowing welt on the ceramic surface. He dropped down next to Takeshi and took his MA3 to release the emptied magazine. Takeshi then used his remaining hand to pull a spare magazine from his vest to hand to him. Wainwright loaded the rifle and chambered a round before handing it back.

"Give me your mags! You're combat ineffective!" he shouted to Takeshi to be heard over the gunfire. "Get back to the final fall-back point!"

"I can still fight!" Takeshi retorted, standing back up and firing a burst that sprayed casings all over Wainwright's helmeted head. "Come on!"

He stood as well and continued firing, shouting, "Fine, then we're splitting mags! I got two mags left!"

"You got it!"

They resumed firing with the rest of their platoon, cutting down the latest wave of alien warriors. Wainwright remembered hearing the term of how streets could "run red with blood" and had to repress a laugh as he fired a burst to drop one of the little squat gray aliens, one of his rounds ricocheting off of the massive tank strapped to its back. Whoever came up with that cliché obviously had not had contact with aliens before. He never expected it himself, but the pavement in front of them was literally slick with blue blood, or whatever it was that the aliens used as blood. It was slightly luminescent even in the light, but it literally gleamed in the morning sun.

"Look out! Bombers in the mix!"

The warning snapped Wainwright out of his mechanical firing. Bombers were their own nickname for the squat gray aliens who waded into battle with a plasma pistol and far too many plasma grenades to count strapped to them. Their sole intention was getting a nice and early meeting with their gods while taking a number of humans with them. He was glad to oblige them on the first part. He continued firing short controllable bursts to keep the front lines of the aliens down while he searched for the distinctive blue flash of plasma grenade ignition.

"Contact! Neutralized!" Corporal Andersen shouted.

A number of the rushing aliens were tossed into the air by the actinic blue flash amidst their ranks as a bomber was stopped prematurely. Its grenades had both gone off and cooked off sympathetically when it had dropped the primed grenades upon death. That had easily thinned out their ranks by half, leaving a sizeable crater in the pavement. Wainwright admired it for a moment before refocusing his fire on bringing down another one of the squat aliens. What was the term they heard from Command? _Grunts_, was it? It made sense, he supposed. The big aliens did like sending them into battle first.

"Load!" Takeshi shouted, dropping his emptied magazine.

He pulled one of Takeshi's magazines from his vest and reloaded the rifle again before resuming his firing. Some of the Grunts looked like they weren't even carrying weapons. Were they stupid? Or…Wainwright felt his gut drop out when he realized what the aliens were doing. Grunts. Cannonfodder. It made sense now.

"Frag out!" he shouted, pulling the M9 HE-DP grenade from his vest and priming it before throwing it as hard and as far away as possible.

It arced out near the back of the Grunt formation before detonating, tearing apart the rear ranks of the Grunts and those vulture-looking things. No shields to stop segmented steel wire traveling faster than anyone could possibly naturally track. There was a momentary flash following the detonation, illuminating one of the big aliens as its shielding collapsed. Taking aim again, Wainwright squeezed out a pair of short bursts. Without its shielding, the alien fell easily to the 7.62x51mm slugs that tore into its armor and flesh. That had a visible effect on the troops as well, making more than a few outright scatter.

"Keep up the fire!" Foster shouted.

He did. Switching to his last magazine, Wainwright sighted in on a Grunt carrying one of their really weird purple needle weapons. Firing a double-tap was sufficient when the two rounds took the top of its head off just above its respirator. Much to his dismay, however, it had managed to squeeze off a burst of its own. He saw only the purplish-pink flash before he felt a dozen needles slam into and through his vest. Shouting, he managed to pull the quick-release tab that dropped his vest. The front of his fatigues was already reddening from where the spikes had punched through and into his body. His vest seemed to disappear in a pinkish flash of light as the needles detonated. At least he was still alive. And it wasn't like he had any ammunition left on his vest anyway. He resumed firing after helping Takeshi with another reload.

There was sudden movement in the rear of the enemy advance. Large movement. Sixteen foot tall leviathans that Wainwright and Takeshi recognized.

Takeshi shouted first. "Oh, _fuck_! They've got Ogres! Hunters on the line!"

Every army historically has had one thing they feared more than others. The UNSC armed forces had long since learned to fear the Hunters since their first engagements in 2531. Well over twelve feet tall, with a gigantic cannon bonded to one arm and an equally gigantic shield bonded to the other, and encased in what was for all intents and purposes impenetrable armor, Wainwright and his fellow Militia soldiers saw no reason why they should be feared. And they always traveled in pairs.

The announcement caused a momentary lapse in their firing as they spotted the Hunters. Their very footsteps made the ground shake as they walked through the ranks of the Grunts and other Covenant aliens. Wainwright and Takeshi continued firing, cutting down swathes of Grunts even as the Hunters drew closer.

"Get the M41!" Foster called.

A few seconds later, a trooper from Second Platoon hurried up to the front with the familiar dual-tube shape of the anti-tank rocket launcher. He was quickly set up on the lip of the frontal barricade. The Hunters drew closer even as the men carved into the advancing ranks of Grunts. What was that rocket jockey thinking?

Wainwright's MA3 suddenly jammed. Instead of clearing it, he let it drop in favor of his sidearm. His M6C barked twice, dropping another Grunt. He'd clear the jam in his rifle once there was a lull. It was pure suicide to do it now. And why wasn't the guy on the M41 firing? He was going to get them all killed.

Finally the trooper fired, the launcher hissing as its first rocket's soft-launch motor activated. The 102mm HEAT missile streaked away silently for the first meter before its primary engine ignited with a roar. Wainwright watched the flash and blur strike the lead Hunter roughly centerline on its belly armor. A good hit. But the Hunter wasn't even staggered. It raised its cannon arm and the two militiamen heard a deep rumbling that resonated in their chests a moment before a stream of fiery green-white fluid was projected from the cannon. Several Grunts who had advanced too far were caught in the spray and screamed shrilly as their flesh and bone were burned away by the torrent of incendiary gel before the tanks mounted on their backs cooked off. The crackling goo splattered all along the street as the Hunter zeroed in on their position, leaving deep burning scars through the pavement. Not good.

The second missile did much better, clipping the inside edge of the Hunter's neck armor with enough force to set off the warhead. Time seemed to slow as the Hunter's head was torn away from the rest of its body by the blast. It flew through the air and landed in the midst of a group of the vulture-looking aliens, splattering them with the Hunter's orange ichor. The headless Hunter wavered, its cannon calling limp at its side as it walked several more steps before collapsing on a knee.

Before anyone could even cheer, it suddenly rocked back onto its feet. It started walking forward again.

"What the fuck?" Wainwright shouted, redirecting his fire onto the Hunter along with what remained of his platoon. "We killed you!" he screamed. "We fucking killed you!"

Their bullets merely flattened against the Hunter's armor as it continued advancing. Wainwright tried varying his target, targeting one point and then another with his sidearm in an attempt to find some sort of weak point. A grenade landed next to the Hunter and went off, turning the Grunts running alongside into a luminescent blue mess but doing absolutely nothing to the Hunter.

The M41 fired again. And again. The first rocket slammed into the Hunter's wedge-shaped chest plate, the second one into its right shoulder. Nothing. The behemoth continued walking as if the fact that it had been decapitated and had three anti-tank rockets thrown at it was a stroll in the park. The militiamen started backing away to prepare to fall back to their next fighting position. Where was that air support they were promised? Where were the Marines? The Army?

Wainwright shrieked as a plasma bolt sank into his shoulder, burning away muscle and nerves before searing bone. He raised his sidearm and fired it defiantly at the headless Hunter.

It exploded.

He blinked. And then he recognized the arrow-like shape of an F99 Wombat UCAV on an attack run. Then another. And another. And another. One by one, they fired their payloads of ANVIL-IV air-to-surface missiles. Each Wombat carried four ANVIL-IV ASMs. Each ANVIL-IV warhead contained four smaller self-guided warheads, each with the ability to mobility-kill an up-armored M808B MBT. The entire Covenant battle line was suddenly and completely engulfed in flames and explosions. Wainwright could feel his ears bleeding from a combination of the overpressure and the firefight, but he cheered nevertheless as the Wombat performed an encore pass three more times to empty their racks. It was a good warmth that washed over the survivors of the New Mombasa Colonial Militia's 2 Company as they whooped and shouted their voices ragged.

The Navy was here.

* * *

Author's Rant: Well, here we are again. References abound. And I'm unapologetic about making the Admiral more than a bit Sue-ish.


	4. Chapter III

"'GUNNER, SABOT, SNIPER' is not an appropriate use of ammunition."

-Murphy's Laws of Armor #26

* * *

**Joint Base Utgard, Diego Garcia, Earth**

**0929 Military Standard Time**

If you wanted things dead as soon as humanly possible, you called the Marines. If you wanted things turned into small carbonized pieces, you were politely referred to the UNSC Army and its Armored Regiments. Presently, both the entirety of the UNSC Marine Corps 405th Marine Infantry Division and the UNSC Army Forty-third Armored Brigade were having the last of their assets loaded aboard a veritable fleet of D77-TC Pelicans and D92-U Albatross transports. Colonel Thomas Hogarth watched from the shade of his tank as the last platoon of his men were into the cavernous bay of an Albatross.

"All Defiance elements present and accounted for, Colonel," Captain Etna Daimon said.

Taking a long draw from his cigarillo, Hogarth nodded to the voice in his headset. Turning around, he mounted the M808A MBT he had been leaning against. First Lieutenant Greg Blaine slid aside in his driver's seat to allow him access to the rear commander's seat. He buckled himself in and gave Sergeant John Roland and Specialist Emile Meyer a nod. The gunner and radioman gave him thumbs up. All systems working.

The M808A was hardly the "best of the best" by a long shot. Unlike the Marines and their modernized "Scorpion" MBT variants, the UNSC Army had remained with the older model main battle tank. With a slower turret traverse, slower cruising speed, and a significantly larger crew requirement, the M808A's sole redeeming factor was the sheer amount of armor that it mounted and its larger main gun. This particular tank, nicknamed "God Hand" was a very visible veteran of scuffles with the Covenant.

"Let's go," he said into the microphone of his headset while turning on the various status displays mounted around his seat.

The Albatross that God Hand and two other M808s were stored in rumbled as its turbines spun up, and was soon airborne. Nothing quite like riding into battle in the lap of luxury. He took another mouthful of the sensuous cigarillo smoke and examined the orders from HIGHCOM. New Mombasa under attack, Covenant ships overhead, require immediate assistance. Usual fare then. He transmitted the orders to the other commanders in his unit before leaning back in his seat to continue soaking in the constantly updating information.

They were making good time according to the readouts. Time to update the troops. He switched to brigade-wide COM.

"All Defiance elements, this is Defiance Actual," he said. "You know the drill, boys and girls. New Mombasa's under attack and we've been called to haul their asses out of the fire. Details loading now. We'll be dropped into the outskirts of the city and progress inward. Remember the drills. We _will_ be fighting in someone's house. And remember not to run any of the jarheads over trying to engage. Defiance Actual out."

"Beautiful day to get our war on, sir," Blaine said to him after manually sealing the clamshell hatch above them.

"Any day when we go to war is a beautiful day, Lieutenant," Hogarth said, correcting him. "God Hand giving you any trouble?"

Blaine coughed, waving the clinging cigarillo smoke away from him. "Nothing yet, sir. Green across the board."

"That's what I like to hear," he said, taking a long drag from his cigarillo while he still had a chance. They were already a quarter of the way inbound.

The Forty-Third was a mixed bag, by his own estimation. Half of the regiment consisted of a recon element with their M808As. The other half were up-armored M12s LRVs and M381 TTs. Hardly the best force to take the fight to the Covenant, but they made do. He would have to. If only they could have had the M312 HRVs upgraded in time. But those were still partially stripped down and immobile back at the Diego Garcia workshops awaiting the 90mm cannons. The situation could have, in retrospect, gone much worse than what it was already.

Hogarth pulled up the landing sites marked out on the outskirts of Mombasa. They would have a staggered deployment along the outer roads, driving inwards in a classic infantry-supported reconnaissance-in-force to link up with their sister regiment, the Forty-fourth. HIGHCOM did know how to make his day. He made sure that the other tank commanders had received the information before switching over to some of that old Earth music that a number of the men and women in his regiment liked. It helped take the edge off of entering a combat zone, even if you were already encased in several tons of tank armor.

Isolating his COM, he skimmed through the primary HIGHCOM frequencies for a broader view of the battlefield.

"Sierra-Five-Niner-Two-Niner, you are cleared to engage all hostiles in your grid sector-"

"-are burning up. Repeat. This is the UNSC _Leonidas_. We have lost all station-keeping ability and are burning up. Stay clear of grid sector three-zero-zero-Mike for approximately two mikes. Repeat, we are burning up-"

"All hands, stand by to repel boarders-"

"Grid-zone two-Alpha-Charlie-Echo-one-one-four-one-seven confirmed. Firing now-"

"-Christ, they're massing for a suicide rush on our positions! Requesting immediate fire mission on position of this transmission!"

"-and thrones may perish, kingdoms rise and wane-"

"We need those reinforcements now, Major! How do you expect a mil-"

"All of convoy has been loaded. Repeat, convoy has been loaded and is en route. Controlled det in four, three-"

"Core Room breached. A.I. MIL-Six-One-Five-Two going offline-"

"-dropping plasma on us! We've got Covie fast-movers! Requesting imm-"

"Colonel Hogarth."

Hogarth blinked at the voice and switched back to the regimental frequency before responding.

"What is it, Katrina?"

"Incoming transmission from HIGHCOM." There was a noticeable pause as the A.I. checked something. "Correction, incoming transmission from Section One, Naval Intelligence. A Captain Rossini to see you. Callsign Wraith Six."

He sighed. Navy butting into Army business as usual. "Patch the captain though." There was an audible pop as Katrina performed some frequency juggling. He started speaking as soon as his displays registered the new participant. "Wraith Six, this is Defiance. How can the Army be assistance today?"

A brisk Octanus-accented female voice came over the COM. "Defiance Actual, Wraith Team has been assigned to assist your advance as forward observers. We only received word a minute ago. LZ has been marked, but is still warm to the touch."

She sounded somewhat upset. The audible detonations in the background might have been the cause. Or the fact that Navy Intel usually hated working with groundpounders like the Forty-third. There was a reason why jokes about women could be easily interchanged with intelligence assets. Hogarth found the new listing on his displays, a six-man unit of ONI reconnaissance operators. They were also surrounded by hundreds of enemy contacts according to the computer.

"Wait one, Wraith." He switched over to the pilots' frequency. "Blucher Squadron, what is our ETA?"

"Six minutes, Colonel," Blucher Lead said. "Four if you don't want a ride back."

Too slow. "Pick up the pace, Blucher Lead, we're not footing the bill for engine repairs."

"Wilco, Defiance," Blucher Lead said, disconnecting.

He switched over to another frequency to the HIGHCOM aerospace hub. "HIGHCOM, this is Defiance Actual. Requesting a danger close strike to assist ONI team designated Wraith. Any available assets?"

It took a moment for whoever was on the other end, likely an AI, to pick out his traffic and route it appropriately. "Defiance Actual, this is HIGHCOM. We read. Currently redirecting quick-reaction force, callsign Backsword. ETA two minutes. HIGHCOM out."

Hogarth switched back to the Wraiths' frequency. "Wraith Six, this is Defiance Actual. We are inbound in approximately five minutes. Air support inbound in two minutes. Have your team pull in."

"Copy, Defiance," the captain said after a moment. "Better shovel more coal in those engines. Wraith Six out."

So now something else was riding on them as well. Hogarth shrugged and resumed rechecking God Hand's systems.

"Gunner, load an S-3 canister," he said.

There was a solid _thump_ as the autoloader slid a fresh shell into the breech of their 120mm gun.

"Loaded," Roland said. "Ready."

"That's the spirit," Hogarth said, taking a final puff of his cigarillo, frowning as a glowing ember came close to falling on his fire-proof coveralls. "Alert to all Defiance elements, you are to fire on my command. All elements are to use S-3 shells for the opening volley. Commander's discretion for the others. Let's get this done, ladies and gentlemen."

* * *

**Republic of Kenya Airspace, East African Protectorate, Earth**

**0940 Military Standard Time**

"Keep those eyes peeled, Backswords," Lieutenant Colonel George "Apollo" Pine said from his Skyhawk at the head of the asymmetric echelon that Backsword Squadron had taken behind him. "We've been receiving reports of Banshees, Vamps, and all sorts of other bogies in the area."

Strapped down securely to his jump seat and with much of his body planted against the appropriate tactile control surfaces, Pine _wore_ the advanced interceptor more than he "flew" it. It had been a welcome change from using only the conventional controls of the Sparrowhawks he used to jockey as a captain.

Backsword Flight had been rapidly mobilized with the rest of the 314th Fighter Wing for strikes against the landing Covenant forces. They hadn't received much in the way of intelligence, only being sent up to act as a quick-response force to troubleshoot for any of the units in the field who needed assistance. And there was no end to those. Half of his hardpoints had been depleted of their complements of Scorpion anti-tank missiles during the last sweep, not to mention several of the pilots as well.

He eyed the passing terrain warily as they cruised along at a near-supersonic speeds. Flying nape of the earth was a necessary risk to avoid the Covenant Seraph fighters that stayed up where the air was thin. He knew his Backswords could handle them, but it was a safer bet to stay under any Covenant sensors. Passing over a small convoy of civilian transports, he waited on the diagnostic on the plasma burn near a fuel line. Damned networking with AIs…

"Backsword Actual, this is Oxide," the magic voice in his helmet said suddenly. "You're needed. Fire mission streaming now."

His HUD suddenly swam with streams of numbers, letters, and symbols. Years of practice quickly translated them even before his implant did. He checked his remaining stores of ordnance and how much ammo was left in his twinned fifty-millimeter cannon mounts. It used to be the responsibility of a weapons officer, but upgrades had simplified the crew complement so they could put more fighters in the air. Good amount still in the bins. He ran a warm-up and woke up his Scorpions. Time for some trade.

A nearby ONI reconnaissance team needed fire support. Danger close. He'd have to be a little more precise with this one. He opened a link to the rest of the Backswords to transmit the fire mission data.

"We have trade," he said. "Two echelons on me."

Apollo watched as the flying wedge that the squadron had been arrayed in collapsed and quickly reformed itself into a pair of echelons. Good training on their part. The recently-upgraded Enhanced Reality System assisted, but it only went so far. However, it _did_ paint him an optimal route toward the strike zone.

They flew on, passing over a long convoy of civilian vehicles trundling along on the plains.

"Sir, you seeing this?" Captain Shaw "Whiplash" Brooks asked over the COM.

"Not our problem, Whiplash," Apollo said after a quick check to make sure there were no bogies in the area that might intercept the convoy. "We are on-mission."

And with any luck, they'd reach the team before the Covenant did.

* * *

**Staging Point Alpha-Three, Old Mombasa, Earth**

**0942 Military Standard Time**

With cliffs on one side and the maze of residential buildings on the other side, Captain Olga Rossini and her team of ONI Wraiths had been forced toward the buildings where their chances of survival significantly increased. Not that the Covenant had figured that out. Or maybe the grunts had but their commanders hadn't. What had been a turkey shoot with Wraiths in the open quickly turned into a cat and mouse game with the two sides stalking each other through the apartment complexes while waiting for support.

And why couldn't those Army pukes pick their feet up a little? She palmed her last M9, primed it, and threw it over the low wall she was hunkered down behind. Her awkward throw was rewarded with panicked shrieks from the Unggoy grunts before they were blessedly cut off by the detonation. Rising and turning with her M7 at the ready, she placed short bursts into the chests of the survivors. They seemed to be moving in slow motion as they fell, and it wasn't just the adrenaline coursing through her system.

It was good to know she hadn't spent the last month recuperating from the augmentation procedures for nothing. The Office of Naval Intelligence liked lavishing their operators with the best that their money could buy. Her entire team had been jazzed up with old ORION augmentation protocols a year ago to improve their responsiveness. They had nicknamed the procedures 'The Diet Spartan Protocols,' and they hadn't been too far from the truth. Sensory enhancement had been combined with what might have been a more-than-slightly illegal formula that improved their reaction time. Not to the degree that the old SPARTAN-IIs had been augmented, but she had a suspicion that they could now at least keep up with the super-soldiers.

As it was, fighting a defensive action was a dicey proposition for her Wraiths. They were trained to be aggressive and always looking for a chance to turn the tide. But that wasn't what was needed right then. They had to hold position and wait for relief. HIGHCOM had best be sending a whole goddamn army to relieve them.

"Wraith Six, patrol is down," she said over the COM. "Wait-"

Rossini was moving before her altered mind could register what had made her move in the first place. Dropping into a crouch, she had her submachine gun shouldered with a good cheek weld, trained on an opened door. When she saw what had opened the door, she sighed inwardly.

_Non-hostile. Do not engage._

"Wraiths, this is Six. We've got non-combatants in the area," she said, trying to keep the irritation out of her voice. "Check before you shoot."

Lowering her submachine gun, she held out her hand.

"It's okay, you can come out," she said. "I'm with the United Nations Space Command."

The door opened a bit more, and she could pick out the shapes of three faces in the darkness, looking at her. Kids? She depolarized her helmet's faceplate and managed a smile while beckoning them forward. The door opened some more and her guess was confirmed.

_Five children, oldest no older than thirteen. Two female and three male._

"I'm Olga," she said, offering a hand out at them. She realized she had slow her words down and soften them as well. "Where are your parents?"

One of the males stepped forward, obviously the self-chosen representative. "Not here," he said, his voice hollow.

"Do you know where they are?" she asked, reaching into one of her armored vest's pouches for ration bars to offer them.

"No," one of the girls said, accepting a bar. "They're gone." Her dull monotone voice raised goosebumps despite the temperature control of her suit.

What sort of people left their children behind during the evacuation? Rossini felt a strange anger boiling up. Not the kind that came with the augmentations. This one was different. She couldn't understand the cause.

"Okay, come with me," she said after a moment of accelerated thought. "I'll get you out of here. What are your names?"

"Paul," the male said. "That's Drew, Kazu, Danny, Beth, and Dee."

"Five minors. Sending caps now," Rossini said, switching to helmet COM and using her helmet camera to take still imagery of the children. "Locate their parents." When the mainframe deep in HIGHCOM registered the request with a two-tone beep, she reactivated the speaker. "Okay, follow me. Stay close and stay quiet."

Paul nodded and looked at the others. He was evidently the alpha male for the group. That was fine by her, as long as he knew how to follow her orders. Reloading her M7, she simultaneously checked her tactical map projected on her visor and issued orders to the rest of the team to reposition. They had been steadily falling back, ceding land for breathing space until the damn groundpounders and tracks got to their landing zones.

She glanced at the feed on her visor showing a view of what was behind her as she walked. Kids were following quietly. Good. But the streets were quiet. The one thing the local government had managed to do correctly was the evacuation of the civilians. But the presence of the five tagalongs meant that they couldn't even do _that_ properly.

"Wraith Six, we might have a problem," Wraith Four reported on the COM.

"And what would that be?"

"See for yourself." An icon blinked, a link to the team sniper's helmet camera. "Phantom paid us a visit."

"Another one?" Rossini asked as she activated the link.

It was footage from Wraith Four's smart-linked scope. Clear as day. And golden as the sun. Two Ogres, the massive armor-clad aliens. Giant shields and plasma cannons made for the perfect defense and offense all in one package. And then her motion tracker started picking up untagged and non-human signatures. Four of them just around the corner. This was going to be a pain. Even though she could see the children following her, she made the effort of turning and waving for them to stay in place. Readying her submachine gun, she crept forward toward the corner. An eye-blink brought up footage from an F99 flying overhead. ONI overrides brought it around so she could see through its eye. Four aliens, all right. Four split-chins. Her work was cut out for her with her noticeable lack of grenades.

"Wraiths, report in," she said on their exclusive SQUADCOM. "Anyone near me?"

"Negative," Wraith Five said.

"Negative," Wraith One reported.

"Sorry, boss," Wraith Three said. "Close, but not close enough."

"Wraith Four, where're the Ogres?"

"Uh, bound east. Toward Wraith One and Five."

"We see 'em. Wraith One going off-net for a while."

"Wraith Five here. Same."

The loss of Wraith Two had been regrettable, but he'd accounted well for himself. Cut off from the rest of the team, Lieutenant Lazar Quintus had found himself against a platoon-sized element of split-chins. Rossini had to watch from his helmet camera as he took the fight to the Covenant. By all accounts, only a Spartan or maybe a Shock Trooper had the training and experience to even consider winning against one of the larger aliens of the psychopathic theocracy. The Army lieutenant proved them wrong. With his assault rifle and sidearm, he managed to take four of the aliens down. When he had run out of ammunition, the knife accounted for three more of them. It had been a suicide run, but Quintus had managed to instill at least some measure of fear in the aliens. They would think twice before taking one of the black-helmeted Wraith operators on. She would be relying on that right now. That and the high ground.

_Starting engagement._

Taking an oxygenating breath, she kicked off into a sprint. Time for a little workout of the augmentations. She heard one of the aliens exclaim something as she blurred past. Her legs flexed and extended. In slow motion, she saw her targets now a foot below her. Her M7 came up firing. The lead element of the four stumbled back as she hosed his shields down to the breaking point with controlled bursts. They overloaded with a flash and pop. Her leg came down on the alien like Thor's hammer, her armored boot slamming downward into the back of the alien's neck. There was an audible cracking sound as the alien's neck broke when she used it as a springboard to regain altitude.

_Time since engagement, two seconds._

The rest of M7's magazine was spent at point-blank range at the top of the skull of the next alien, chewing open its shields with ease to then penetrate the actual armor and turn whatever passed for a skull and brainpan into a purplish slurry. No time to reload it. She flung the emptied submachine gun at the third while dragging her sidearm out of its holster. Her M6C/SOCOM fired twice before it stovepiped. No time to waste on clearing. Dropping it, she reached behind her and pulled her combat knife out of its scabbard on her back. She'd have to finish off the two of these with that. Seemed fair enough. She lunged.

_Time since engagement, five seconds._

She went for the wounded one first. A pair of plasma bolts streaked toward her. Adrenaline only made her augmentations better. Ducking underneath them, she slashed upward. The tip of her blade raised sparks against the blue armor as it came up. Faster than she could blink herself, Rossini reversed the angle of the blade and slammed it back down the moment it cleared the armor. This was a significantly better-aimed attack.

She could feel the tip of her blade break as she shattered the breast bone or whatever passed for one for the alien. Exerting a little more pressure sank the blade in. The alien struggled against her. Strong but not strong enough. Her knife severed the two major arteries that pumped blood through the alien's body as she powered through. That had been heralded by the sudden spray of purplish blood. Twisting the blade, she heard the crackling of more bone as she shattered its upper ribcage. With that, she yanked the blade out in a single motion, the freed arterial spray coating much of her plates.

_Time since engagement, seven seconds._

"Right," she growled, looking at the remaining alien, well aware that he probably wouldn't understand her even if she wasn't riding the augmentations. "Bring it."

Even as the alien bellowed a challenge, she was already moving by the time it had deactivated its shields while going for its sword. It would be too slow. They always were too slow. She slung herself to the right, hands reaching out to use a mailbox as a pivot point. Swinging about, she found herself neatly behind the alien. As it turned to face her, she ducked down. Her blade flashed out. Four cuts. One along the middle of each elongated tarsal, as well as one along the weight-bearing carpals. Each one cut through the protective membrane of the armor and through the skin and muscle until she hit bone. She'd read the numerous autopsies before. She knew where to strike.

_Time since engagement, nine seconds._

The alien stumbled before Rossini moved to finish the job. Wrapping a forearm around its snake-like neck, she delivered a knee into its spine while wrenching it to the side. Her dripping knife came up and was dragged across its neck to open it up like a deranged Freudian symbol. Despite having had its legs crippled with near-surgical cuts and its throat lain open, the alien tried to fight to its last breath. She had to hand it to it. The alien struggled against her grip, each spasm and movement only managing to increase the amount of blood jetting from its slit throat. It grew weaker until she put the knife to use again. It finally went completely limp after she opened up several more ragged cuts into major veins and arteries.

_Engagement complete._ _Total time of engagement, fourteen seconds._

Dropping the three hundred pound load of dead meat, she caught a reflection of herself in a storefront's mirror while catching her breath. She and her team had been issued the ONI variant of Shock Trooper armor painted a drab green-gray. Her armor and bodysuit was now almost completely coated in the slick purple gore of the aliens. She was reminded now more than ever how much she disliked close quarter combat. Tearing out a rag from the storefront's displays, she wiped away what she could from her hands and helmet. No point in scaring the children. Her knife went back into its scabbard after a wipe-down as well. Then picking up her weapons, she cleared them and walked back to the children trying to compose her face to seem suitably neutral.

"Okay," she said when she saw them. "Let's go."

Paul and the female he had designated as Dee stood and stared at her while the other three children shuffled toward her, only following after a moment. Was something wrong? Had she forgotten something? Her motion tracker was out, for one. Possibly from the impact or from the near-miss of the plasma, the window had gone to static. Her other networked systems still worked so it was likely just a glitch of some sort and not enemy action.

"Wraiths, stop mousing. Consolidate on Wraith Four's position and hope the flyboys can see our tags," she said on SQUADCOM. "Sound off."

"Wraith One copies. Can't stop mousing, though."

"Wraith Three copies. I'll link up with you first, Six."

"Nice to have some company. Wraith Four copies."

"Wraith Five copies. Same as One. Am on the move."

She led them through the corpses, moving as quickly as possible but slowly enough for the children to follow. Nobody seemed squeamish about walking through entrails. She wasn't sure whether or not to be worried about it. Was it shock? Had they been exposed to things like this in-

_Movement_.

Her M7 came up before she recognized the flashing IFF tag. Wraith Three. Lowering her submachine gun slightly, she sighed in the isolation of her helmet. What was happening? Her response times were down. Why was she so edgy and combat ineffective?

"Wraith Three, have five with me," she said on the COM. "Anything on your side?"

"Nada. Approaching from your one."

She watched Wraith Three detach from the pile of trash that he had stowed himself in as camouflage. It worked surprisingly well. Without infrared scanners, she could have hardly picked his shape out of the debris. He approached carrying his issued Galilean over a shoulder, the impossibly large but fairly light-weight man-portable anti-vehicle weapon the perfect equalizer. If the battery still retained much of a charge.

"You're green?" she asked him.

"Christmas trees, pond green, emerald green, whatever green you want, Boss. Took down a whole squad element with a shot," he said with a shrug. "Better than a Spanker any day."

"I'll review later, Wraith. We need to get these kids to a safe zone."

"Seemed pretty safe to me when you found them, ma'am."

"Are you questioning my orders, Three?" Rossini asked, head cocked.

"Uh, negative, Six."

"Good. Provide rear security for the children."

They knew each others' names, and the Covenant hardly tapped into their communications. But it was tradition to refer to each other exclusively by callsign out in the field. It added a degree of impersonality and an emotional disconnect needed in their line of work when a buddy was killed. They would be having words later, but not now.

Rossini led, referring to her tactical map overlay of the buildings. She remembered visiting Mombasa as a child. Before this attack. Before the Covenant. Before the Insurrection. Before the city had truly come apart into Old and New Mombasa. It had a glittering jewel that straddled the coast of Kenya. And to look at it now. The apartment complexes they were passing had been world renown. Now they were just a reminder of what the days before Shaw and Fujikawa's discoveries had been like. By all accounts, Olga Rossini was a callback herself. Years of cryosleep awaiting orders had taken their toll. Biologically she was in her thirties. Her chronological age was much closer to three times that. But it came with the territory of being a Wraith. She gladly accepted it to continue working and protecting her nation from threats from within and without.

"Dead quiet here, Six," Three said as they walked. "You think they forgot about us?"

"Don't tempt fate, Three. Observe everything, admire nothing."

"Hooah, ma'am."

They emerged from the maze of complexes to the aftermath of an earlier stand in a plaza. Two, Four, and Three had bumped into a Covenant scouting party of approximately twenty of the smaller "Grunts" and a lone split-chin. That had ended poorly by the time Five and Rossini had reached their position. The blood had started coagulating into a stinking purplish mess around the downed bodies. Their dropped plasma weapons covered the street like leaves.

"Still have to say, Three, _very_ nice work," she said. "You need a break?"

"Probably best for the kids," Three said.

"Okay." She switched over to the speaker to address the children. "Anyone tired? We can stop for a minute."

Nobody nodded. Strong children. Or scared. She could partially sympathize.

"Are you sure? Okay." She returned to the privacy of SQUADCOM.

"Hey, Cap, I like these kids. Can we keep them?"

"You can conscript them yourself when we get back," she said with a snort. "Let's keep moving then, Three."

"You got it."

They continued on in silence. Surrounded by freshly-abandoned storefronts and vehicles, the ad hoc convoy had to slow down to maneuver around the hazards. Pinpoint Covenant plasma bombardment of the sector had turned most of the streets in this area into burning messes. The aliens had wisely kept their air support out of the confines of the complexes. Now she was unwisely leading a group of children to relative safety through an area that would be considered generally unsafe by even the dimmest of military experts. But the children didn't need to know that.

So far they had not been spotted by any of the air assets, and that was fine by her. The bulbous purple fliers were too busy fighting a war of aerial supremacy over their heads to care about some easy targets. Fine by her again.

"Wraith Four, where are the Ogres now?" Rossini asked after a while.

"Currently catting with One and Five, Six."

"Great." Glancing at Three, she switched over to One and Five's frequencies. "You having any trouble there, boys and girls?"

"Negative, Six," Five grunted. "Armor took a bit of plasma, but I'll be fine if we can get to an Optican station. Stings."

"Keep up the work. Take them for a run as close to the next sector if possible. Then fall back on Four, understand?"

"Understood."

"One?"

"Understood, ma'am."

"Outstanding. I'll leave that to you, then."

Rossini took a sip from her suit's internal hydration reservoir as she walked. Something had gone wrong with her suit's temperature regulators. She wasn't supposed to be sweating this much. Chalking it up to another technical screw-up, she continued walking. Temperature regulators down, motion sensors down, could it get any worse?

Three raised his helmeted head. "Six, you hear that?"

She consulted her tactical map. "Incoming support. Friendly. We need to hoof it." She returned to speakers for the children. "Okay, we're going to have to run now."

Her experiences with the UNSCAF weren't altogether negative, but they had a tendency of just gunning up everything that wasn't in a designated safe zone. And considering the shit that was already happening, she wouldn't fault them. But she had no intention of being another blue-on-blue casualty today. Not with children depending on them. They needed to pull back to Four's position immediately.

Slinging her submachine gun, she grabbed the two smallest children in her arms. Three did the same and knelt down to let the last child wrap his arms around his neck before getting back up. They exchanged glances before breaking out into a full-out sprint.

* * *

**Old Mombasa Airspace, Earth**

**0949 Military Standard Time**

"Oxide, Backswords are on-station. Guns hot," Apollo reported to HIGHCOM even as he brought his weaponry to bear while swinging his Skyhawk around to get a better view of the area they were going to fuck up. "Engaging all non-tagged movement."

"Oxide reads," their combat controller said. "You are cleared hot on all non-tagged movement."

It was a bit formal, but it sure cut down on the paperwork. And tossing a full squadron at a fire mission was a bit close to overkill.

"Backswords, listen up," he said over SQUADCOM. "We've been cleared hot on everything that doesn't have a friendly squarker. And try not to topple too many buildings this time. Let's kill us some alien scum."

The Skyhawk had been designed with counter-insurgency operations in mind, and it represented some of the best of UNSC engineering in one slick package. Able to go from supersonic to a freakishly-low loitering speed at the drop of the metaphorical hat, the design had first proven itself on the front lines of the Insurrection, ferreting out pockets of resistance in the streets of Outer Colony cities. The wider avenues of Old Mombasa were a joke compared to that. His Backswords fanned out to sterilize the area.

"Got some merging here," Whiplash said from his two o'clock. "Damn, those spooks know how to put up a fight. Tally. Covenant infantry. Rifle, danger close."

He saw the captain's Skyhawk disgorge a pair of his Scorpions. Those weren't the best anti-infantry weapons available, but their autocannons would have likely turned the friendlies below into ground meat as well as the enemy. He spotted a swarm of movement himself and realigned himself to get a good look. Multiple small contacts that he easily recognized. Oh, how he hated seeing those.

"Roaches! They've got roaches!" he shouted. "Button up intakes now!"

"Jeee-sus. Why'd it have to be roaches?" Captain Tyler "Mesmero" Nyame asked rhetorically. "I _hate_ roaches."

Pilots of yore had to worry about the occasional bird getting sucked into their intakes. The UNSCAF's pilots had to worry about semi-sentient insectoids as big as men getting into their intakes. That they presented a viable threat was commonly overlooked. Skyhawks could take some plasma without breaking up. What the V/STOL aircraft couldn't take was "foreign object damage" which was a delightfully vague euphemism meaning that shit was stuck in your intakes.

What the actual "object" was could vary from really large particulate to body parts in one particularly memorable incident involving a Falcon jockey flying a little too close to an Innie position back during KALEIDOSCOPE. Either way, it meant you had best punch out before you wound up demonstrating the hazards of lithobraking. So everyone buttoned up upon meeting roaches, despite the slight deceleration imposed by the filters.

He brought his cannons lined up for a perfect shot. His displays showed his Backswords already responding. There were eight of them remaining now after Backsword Three and Seven had been tagged by a Vamp on their flight into Old Mombasa. But they had been through worse. This was nothing. Tom, Lander, Danger, and Tapedeck continued laying down fire for the reconnaissance team while Apollo, Mesmero, Titmouse, and Whiplash engaged the aliens.

Titmouse, Lieutenant Paul Valley, spoke first as they dove for the swarm. "Tally, large group of roaches. Guns?"

"Guns," Apollo agreed. "Firing."

All four Skyhawks fired as one. Sixteen cannons rattled out extended bursts of fifty-millimeter shells. Those tore through the cloud of aliens and converted the majority of them into corpses even before they closed the distance. His Skyhawk shook as Apollo plowed through the previously somewhat orderly swarm. Dead and dying roaches bounced and skittered off of his fuselage as he struggled with his controls. It wasn't exactly the smartest thing to do, but if you wanted something dead, it was probably best to run the fucker over.

The four of them made quick work of the aliens, leaving no survivors. Apollo was aware of the shattered corpses falling to earth not so far away below them. No missiles were needed. Good. Anti-tank weaponry tended to work sub-optimally against personnel, not matter how large or nonhuman they were.

"Backsword Actual, this is Wraith Six," a hoarse female voice sudden broke in on his COM. "We're pinned down by a pair of-wait, make that _one_ Ogre. Target is being lasered. Could use some assistance."

"Backsword Actual copies, engaging lasered on tally. I'll do this one personal," he acknowledged. "Titmouse, Whiplash, engage all bogies. Mesmero, knock it off. We're going hunting."

The wonderful thing he found out about their new ERS was how well it coordinated with ground systems. Friendly contacts had always been designated, but the upgraded Enhanced Reality System allowed him a more in-depth idea of what they were facing. As a matter of fact, it even provided a nice path for him to follow in order to get into position for a gun run. Or a missile run in this case. So nice of the Covenant to provide proper targets for his anti-tank missiles.

"Mesmero, see it?" he asked, eyeing the shape of his wingman's Skyhawk several meters above and in front of him.

"Oh yes. Visual. Rifle."

One of Mesmero's missiles dropped and streaked away. There was a visible explosion and smoke plume.

"Lots of debris, blind. Wait, _damn_. That's a tough cookie. Rifle."

Another missile, another plume.

"Son of a _bitch_. You want to give it a crac-"

Traveling as if in slow-motion; a green lance of energy streaked up from the street and tore a sizeable hole in Mesmero's right forward stabilizer, knocking the Skyhawk about.

Mesmero's COM transmission turned into garbled static for a second before his cracking voice punched through. "Ogre hit me. I'm hit. Mayday, mayday. Backsword is hit. Control surfaces only partially responding. I'm going to try setting her down on a building. Transponders are _on_. Impact in-" his COM signal blanked out, but his transponder was lit and strong.

Apollo monitored Mesmero's attempt at a controlled landing even as he maneuvered in to hit the lased target himself. He brought his Scorpion racks up and laid their crosshairs on the Ogre a flick of his eyes and a few choice twitches of his elbows. Ugly bastard, even if it was all gussied up in gold. A quick slashing burst of cannon-fire got its attention. Just as it looked up, he fired a full salvo of Scorpions even as he performed a rapid Cobra turn to bring all of his weapons to bear, straight down.

The golden Ogre was completely obscured by his fire. Four anti-tank missiles and several hundred shells slammed into the Ogre. Its gigantic shield might have blocked much of the fire if it had managed to raise it in time. Instead, the missiles and shells tore straight down through the small but exploitable gaps where the head met the shoulders. Each fifty-millimeter shell was designed with penetrating heavy tank armor. The collective of orange eels that made up the Ogre stood no chance. The rounds burrowed in and liquefied much of the Ogre, leaving it an immobile hulk of marred golden armor and a rapidly-spreading pool of viscous orange ichor.

"Good effect on target, it's down." Wraith Six remarked. "Thanks for the assist. We owe you, Backswords."

"Not a problem. Could use that favor now, though. Rather immediate."

"Name it."

"One of my flight went down in the vicinity. Transponder's marked on the map."

"Don't worry, Backsword Actual, we'll get your man out right fast."

"Much obliged, Wraith," Apollo said, trying not to sigh with relief. "We'll maintain overwatch until reinforcements arrive."

"Thanks for the thought, shouldn't take too long though."

"Marines?"

"Army."

"Hooah."

* * *

UNSC Logistical Operations Technical Archives: M808A "Deathstalker" Main Battle Tank

Crew: 4 (Commander, Driver, Gunner, COM operator)

Length: 14 meters

Width: 4.5 meters

Mass: 77 metric tons

Maximum Acceleration: 7 kilometers per hour

Hull: Ablative Titanium-A armor

Armament: 120mm High Velocity Cannon (1)

Secondary Armament: M247T 7.62x51mm Remotely-Operated Weapon System (2)

Brief: The M808 "Scorpion" is a robust UNSC design, having been in use in one configuration or another. The Marine Corps' M808B represents the latest in defensive and offensive technology coming together to create a well-balanced main battle tank. This model is best known and had begun to be disseminated into the Army's armored units at the beginning of the war with the Covenant. However, shortages have necessitated that stocks of the M808B be allocated for the frontline Marine units while the older M808A MBT will remain in service with the Army for at least another half century. The "Deathstalker" as it is affectionately known by its crews, is a throwback to the days of armored combat on open fields and yet remains a potent force on the modern battlefield thanks to previously "inefficient" multiply-redundant systems.

It is notably slower than the Marines' better-known new model, but sports naval-grade Titanium-A armor instead of the lighter and previously more economic titanium-ceramic plate that the M808B has become known for. The Deathstalker is also noticeably larger and heavier, carrying a much larger main gun with a unique redundant loader system that while taking up more space allows for a rapid response in case of autoloader failure. It also carries two mounted GPMGs that can be remotely-controlled from weapon stations within the Deathstalker's crew compartment by the COM operator and commander, but may also be manually controlled should all electronic systems go down.

* * *

Author's Rant: A bit of an interlude piece. We'll be seeing plenty of Hogarth in the next chapter. Also, if it hasn't been made particularly obvious, I really dislike the UNSC Marine Corps on sheer principle of being "OMG Speiss Mah-reens".

And for a moment to respond to the C&C:

FraserMage: Competence? Not _really_...

Easy of Seven: Yes, and the UNSC Army is apparently used for defensive operations. I've interpreted it as meaning that their logistical train is much more robust, but their actual equipment is not up to par with Marine equipment since the UNSC Marine Corps seems to have the best of what the UNSC can offer in-game. The Marines have been consistently portrayed as being super badasses who take names and kick ass. Why wouldn't they get the better equipment? Remember, Bungie and most of the current game developers seem to have a real hard-on for Marines. And according to Halopedia, the MA37 is a stagnant offshoot of the MA5 series. The name itself suggests that it is actually a derivant of the older MA3 series. And as far as we know, the Army and Marines do _not_ share equipment. The Army would likely still be using the MA37 while the Marines are already carrying the new and shiny MA5C.


	5. Chapter IV

"Words couldn't describe it. The damn thing came down on top of us like a sack of bricks. My Longsword got knocked around a bit by the wave. Looked almost beautiful if it weren't carrying a million aliens out for our blood. Hell of a sight. It was one hell of a sight."

-Major Walter Hsu (Retired), UNSC Navy; Battle of Mombasa

* * *

**Lumumba Road, New Mombasa, Earth**

**1001 Military Standard Time**

"Wait a second, doesn't Chuck live in that block?"

The Warthog slowed to a crawl. Sergeant Gerhardt leaned over to see what Brown was talking about. He was right. Sergeant Charles Grey did indeed live in the particular apartment block that Brown was pointing at. The team ordnance expert, he tended to have poor luck. In this case, he happened to be living in the only building that had been hit by Covenant plasma. That might have explained why he hadn't shown up at the muster-up. There had been bets before the attack involving his knowing his new wife in a Biblical sense. The sight of the partially-burning building had put a true end to that.

They had split from the militia's advance after the Navy started to make its presence known. The NMPD were supposed to protect and serve the people of New Mombasa. That was what they were going to do unless given countermanding orders. With two evacuation shelters checked, they were rerouting toward another city shelter to make sure they got out. It was surprising how many tactical officers you could cram into what was technically a vehicle designed for three occupants at best.

"You think he's still alive?" Gerhardt asked.

"Don't matter. We gotta check," Williams responded. "He'd never leave one of us behind. You know that."

Lumumba Road and its buildings hadn't been hit as badly by the initial strikes. Things still seemed orderly enough. If anything, it was further proof that the evacuation protocols worked. They had only encountered a few civilians wandering the streets. Those had been quickly directed toward the closest shelter for relocation.

They dismounted the borrowed militia Warthog after getting in as close as possible through the civilian cars. This area hadn't been swept by Covenant forces, which meant that they needed to move quickly before the aliens arrived. Gerhardt pulled rear security with his assault rifle in case the Covenant decided to show up early and rain all over their parade. They advanced up the plaza leading into Grey's apartment complex, skirting around the occasional burning pit and broken sewage mains caused by plasma bombardment.

"Okay, this is giving me the creeps now," Brown remarked as they neared the main doors of the complex. "Anyone else get the feeling of being in the eye of the storm? It's way too quiet."

"Better hope it stays that way," Williams said.

It was strange to be sure. New Mombasa had never been this empty or quiet before. Even Vergil had toned it down with the signage. Some of the signal panels had been completely shut down. That was worrying considering the processing power available to the city AI. At least the COM channels were still active if cluttered. But there was the not-so-distant crackle of human weapons meeting the whine of Covenant plasma.

The lobby of the building was completely quiet, a cavern of sterile white tile. The lights were out, the room barely illuminated by the sunlight. Gerhardt flicked his MA5C's underslung flashlight on and played the cone of illumination over the lobby. Brown had gotten the same idea and his new MA5B's light joined his in searching for any sign of life. No blood yet. That was a good sign.

"Lift's out," Williams said. "Stairs?"

"Come on, lardass," Brown said to Gerhardt.

Unlike the tenements of yore, the stairs of the governmentally-subsidized apartment complex were wide and quite well lit. This had been a natural outgrowth from the Insurrection as well as the even earlier food riots of the 2200s. Police could only suppress uprisings if they could see the uprising and actually get at it.

"Could we, I don't know, ask Chuck to live somewhere a little closer to ground level?" Brown remarked on the flight up to the twentieth floor. "These stairs are killing me…"

He trailed off as they came up on the next flight. Or at least what was left of the next flight. Plasma had cut neatly through the faux marble to reveal much of the floors beneath them. The lips of the cut still glowed faintly with heat. The polycrete and steel bars had done nothing to stop the plasma's cut.

Brown reacted first. "Vergil, we need a bypass," he said before cocking his head and smacking the side of his helmet's COM-piece. "Vergil are you there? Vergil? Vergil? Vergil!" Shaking his head, he looked at the rest of the team. "I can't get through to the Superintendent."

"Hold on," Gerhardt said as he checked his own COM. There wasn't even a channel listing for the city AI anymore. "I got nothing."

"Same here," Williams said, worry creeping into his voice. "Spool out some buckmesh?"

"Sounds good to me," Gerhardt said. "Do it."

Williams pulled the magazine out of his sniper rifle and replaced it with one of the green-taped magazines that they kept for cases like this. He cleared the chamber to load the first of the buckmesh rounds. The clip went on over the muzzle-break of the rifle.

"Brace," he muttered under his breath before firing.

Even with the subsonic loading of the buckmesh round, Gerhardt still found his ears ringing from the report. But at least their sniper had made it. The buckmesh cartridge was a special-purpose round originally designed for insertions into high-rise buildings. A piston in the casing allowed for a hundred meters of buckmesh cable. Barely thicker than a hair, rumor had it able to hold up a Warthog. It would certainly hold a three-man tactical team as they tried to traverse a ten meter wide gap. There were times where improvisation was called for.

Williams pulled the clip from the muzzle of the rifle and rammed it into the wall at the lip of the hole. Twin gas-powered spikes slammed into the wall to hold the clip securely. Simultaneously, a small motor in the clip started spooling in the cable to get it sufficiently taut for what they were attempting.

"Mack, you get the honors," Brown said.

"Got it," Gerhardt said, pulling his secondary set of gloves on and slinging his rifle.

Flexing his hands, he approached the hair-thin line. He hitched one of his belt harness carabiners to the cable and took a breath. Then he let himself fall forward into the void.

He could feel the residual heat of the plasma even as he was slung forward along the buckmesh line by his own momentum. His feet dangled over the chasm as he slid feet-first across the hole. It wasn't that much different from their fast-roping exercises, just much more horizontal. His boots slammed into the other side of the hole, the heat-weakened polycrete crumbling slightly from the impact. At least there hadn't been any sag in the cable.

Wrestling with the cable, Gerhardt swung himself around and grabbed onto the ledge. He was faintly aware of the red-hot edge burning into his gloved hands as he pulled himself to safety. It wasn't the easiest of accomplishments with an assault rifle strapped to his back and a full load of equipment, but he'd had worse. Scrambling to his knees on the other side, he unhooked himself from the cable and gave a thumbs up to the others.

"We're good," he called. "Brown!"

Brown came, slinging himself over like Gerhardt had. Gerhardt grabbed his wrist and pulled him up to safety. One left.

"Come on, Williams!" Gerhardt shouted.

"In a minute," the sniper said. "Gotta stow it."

They watched as Williams rapidly disassembled the SRS into its primary components. It was a perk of the new rifles. Properly machined, they could be reassembled without losing zero. It came in handy when a sharpshooter had to get into position through a path too small to fit the full rifle. Williams had the whole rifle bundled into a package that fit in the duffel he then slung over his shoulders. He clipped onto the cable and swung out.

In an action movie there would have been a dramatic scene where they would have to pull the last man to safety when he didn't make it. But this wasn't some Voi Theater matinee. The two men hauled Williams up onto the floor.

"We're good?" Gerhardt asked, looking at the other two. "Good. Let's get moving."

Without a word, they continued walking up the next flight. They had more floors to climb before they could rest. If they could rest.

* * *

**Approaching Staging Point Alpha-Three, Old Mombasa, Earth**

**0946 Military Standard Time**

"Approaching LZ, Colonel," Katrina said in his ear. "Whatever you have planned, you probably want to do it now."

"A fine suggestion, Katrina. Meyer, general frequency." Colonel Hogarth said. "All Defiance elements, this is Defiance Actual. Prepare to fire on my command."

Their transports flew in fairly high, just above the traditional operating area of Covenant Banshees and just below the optimum operating area of their Seraphs. It also meant that they had a long time to say goodbye if someone wound up falling out of the open-air bays, but everyone had been securely strapped in.

Hogarth rechecked the landing position. Mostly clear, but with some sizeable pockets of enemies, one of which was surrounding the ID tags of the ONI team. Those were designated first for his boys. With that out of the area, he started mapping out how they were going to take down the area. Word from HIGHCOM had been that the area was evacuated and locked down. Good. As much as he hated to admit it, armor was a double-edged sword in an urban environment. Even S-3 shells could knock a hole open across a city block. The S-1 could put a hole through lengthwise.

They were nearing the landing zones now. The Marines would be performing their final checks, their armor support doing the same strapped to the backs of their Pelicans. He never could understand why the Marines had demanded to use only the smaller Pelicans. While they were more maneuverable and had a smaller profile, they were uneconomical like their Scorpions. They depended more on quantity over quality. Hogarth remembered the ancient adage regarding glass houses and rocks, but the Forty-third was called an "Armored" brigade for a good reason. They peddled in overkill, and business was going to start booming in a few seconds when they hit the drop zone.

"All Defiance elements, this is Actual," he said. "Targets are designated, approaching LZ. Three seconds and then fire if capable."

He received affirmations from his battalion commanders. In three seconds, all hell would rain down on the invaders. Then the battle would begin in earnest. The Albatross jerked suddenly.

The pilot came on in his earpiece. "Whoa! Colonel, we're picking up heavier-than-expected flak here," he said.

Damn. He mulled his options. They were in range. Anti-air. He checked the maps to locate the plasma emplacements. Damn, those aliens fortified fast. What the hell were they going to do with a place like this anyway? He decided.

"Okay, put us down as close as possible _here_," he said to the pilot, circling a point on the map where he could see a break in the flak. "All Defiance elements, fire, fire, _fire_."

Over a hundred 120mm guns fired as one, his command the proverbial finger on the trigger. Each tank had been designated a target on the ground, and the gunners had fired as ordered. Ordinarily firing from within the cargo bays of transports was frowned upon to say the least, but these were extraordinary times. The bays were filled with a rush of fire, sound, and overwhelming pressure as the guns fired. Had there been anyone who hadn't buttoned up, they would have had their organs liquefied by the blast.

Their targets below had a less theoretical death.

The S-3 canister shell was the logical evolution of the old canister rounds. Designed for fighting the insurrectionists of Epsilon Eridani, the S-3 was intended for close-quarters combat in cities against technicals. Each shell contained four sub-units, each containing two hundred polycrete-jacketed tungsten carbide ball bearings. They were economical casualty-producers, the tungsten more than capable of tearing infantry and light armor apart while the cheap polycrete tended to fracture to create micro-shrapnel.

The shells were proximity fused for optimum casualties, each one releasing its payload a dozen meters from their targets. With each shell following a near-perpendicular path toward the target, it redefined the term "steel rain". Hogarth could see the little aliens come apart, tungsten ball bearings tearing apart limbs, decapitating leaders, and creating a general mess of the ranks while the micro-shrapnel produced by the disintegrating polycrete produced a massacre of a thousand cuts. He saw heat signatures come apart on his screens. No point in using the old Mark I Ball, Eye with the cloud raised by their fire. Sensors would have to do to confirm the kills.

"Good hits," Captain Daimon reported from "Inseminator," her own M808A, fitted with an advanced sensor suite. "I'm seeing a nice wide corridor, sir."

"That's what I like to hear," Hogarth said. Another bonus of the M808A, there was better acoustic shielding from the main gun going off over their head. "Almost on target. Your boys ready?"

"As we'll ever be, sir," she said.

"Good."

The pilot cut in. "Colonel, we're on-site. Preparing for debarking now, sir."

Final checks. They were-

There was the distinctive sound of metal-on-metal contact. The Albatross listed sharply to its side, the tanks safely restrained in their berths but still creaking ominously. He could hear the sound of a straining rotor as the dropship compensated. That couldn't have been good.

The pilot came on again. "Uh, Colonel, we've taken some damage to our forward left rotor. We can compensate, but no guarantees."

"How high up are we?" Hogarth asked, gripping one of the consoles, checking the map displayed there.

"Forty meters, sir."

"Okay, put us down here," he said, highlighting a new position while he reorganized their mapping again.

He could hear the pilot swallow nervously. "Sir, that's-"

"I know where that is," he said irritably. "And it's an order, Captain."

"Yes, sir."

The already-open ramps allowed Hogarth a good view of their surrounding airspace while the ships came around to land their troops. Old Mombasa seemed kind of nice if a bit dilapidated. Too bad they were going to be adding to the overall dilapidation of this particular shithole.

"Releasing clamps," the pilot said, his words followed by the loud _clunk_ of the restraints holding God Hand and Inseminator in place disengaging. "We are now on top of the LZ, sir. Good luck."

"Luck has nothing to do with this," he said. "Blaine, forward."

He felt the turbine that drove God Hand purr as they rolled forward. His subordinates had been trained well, operating on reflex. That was necessary when dealing with tanks. It also stopped them from asking silly questions like "Colonel, why are we going to drive off a dropship that hasn't landed yet?"

Hogarth felt his stomach lurch as his they were changed from going forward to going downward. Another bonus of the heavy naval-grade armor were the improved shock absorbers built into the suspension of the four track pods. It was a twenty meter plunge into the roof of an African Trust building.

"Keep us steady," he managed to say to Blaine before the jarring impact.

For a moment, he lost track of which way was up. God Hand hit the tiled roof like the only way a seventy-seven ton main battle tank could. Hogarth could hear the sound of the structural supports straining. This wasn't going to be doing anything good for the load-bearing columns. A small voice in his head giggled and pondered about the possibility of there being tank insurance. The voice sounded like his father.

A second behind him, Daimon's Inseminator hit the roof. Her driver, Lieutenant Joseph Grey, had a noticeably defter touch, the tank barely jostling as it settled on its track pods. Above them, the other dropships began to roll about to land their troops.

"Sir, what the hell did you-?" Blaine began, turning in his seat. "You-" he tried again, his mouth working but with no words coming out.

"Forward, Lieutenant," Hogarth said after making sure all of his teeth were still in place. "Get us onto the street. I think we've got a battle to win."

With a grinding lurch, God Hand rolled forward toward the edge of the roof. Good to see it could still move. The roof creaked ominously as they drew closer. Secondary sensors showed a likely drop in its structural integrity when the two tanks had dropped down on it. Too dangerous here. Deathstalkers could take a wide range of impact without complaint, but this one had a high chance of their landing on their heads. He consulted his map again.

"Put her in reverse," he told Blaine. "We're going over the other side."

"_Sir_?"

"Just do it, Lieutenant," he said with a sigh. "We're liable to tip over if we go over this side. We go over the other side."

His driver didn't say a word as he threw God Hand into reverse. Hogarth felt himself being pressed against his restraints by the sheer acceleration. And his suspicions were proven right as they rolled over onto the building behind the bank. The sensors indicated a much less reinforced building. If they-

There was a splintering sound as the roof buckled under their weight. Good. Or bad, if you were the owner of the building. He could see Inseminator rolling up next to him. Perfect. The added weight was enough and the roof seemed to rise up and surround them.

"Turn us!" Hogarth bellowed as they slammed into the floor beneath them. "We go nose-first!"

God Hand ground its tracks into the floor, Blaine flexing the track pods to turn the tank around. They had landed in the top floor of a Cimaroon building. Tables and cubicles were tossed aside or crushed underneath treading designed for rough terrain. He could feel the floor beneath them creaking. At least they were aligned properly for a plummet.

But that never came. Someone had obviously all of their thought into the floors rather than the roof. He accessed the city infrastructure database and found himself some schematics. Plans never survived contact. He'd never had a plan not survive contact with the local environment, though. This wouldn't be his first.

"Okay, new plan. Follow the dotted line," he said after designating a new path. "We'll let the city take care of the infrastructure problems."

"Yes sir," Blaine said after a moment. "Moving out now…"

God Hand turned again, smashed and crashing through a printer farm to align itself with the far wall to their right. They pushed forward, sending computers and other office equipment either flying of being crushed underneath their treads. There was something empowering about riding seventy-seven tons of heavy metal mayhem.

They tore through the brick wall as if it weren't there. Polycrete and brick came apart to reveal another rooftop.

"Just follow the waypoints," he said to Blaine before switching over to talk with Daimon. "Just follow the swathe of destruction behind me, Captain."

"Copy that," his aide said. "Moving out now."

Hogarth watched through the thick polycarbonate of the windshield as they smashed through the wall of the next building. Unlike the more open design of the M808B, they had a smaller field of vision. This made it jarring to have things suddenly block your vision whenever something covered the windshield. On the other hand, they had sensors to rely on instead. But crashing head-on into a load-bearing wall was more jarring than Hogarth had expected.

He was thrust forward into his restraints, much like everyone else in God Hand. Roland had thoughtfully raised and turned the barrel of the main gun to avoid smashing it into the reinforced wall. The wall was slowly bending, the internal supports flexing under the impact of the tank. Hogarth could see the stress fractures of the external plaster before they powered straight through it. The struts bent outward as the nose of the tank plowed through it, the steel bars flexing out in a spray of crushed polycrete.

Smashing through the office, they finally came to a stop in the middle of it all. There was an audible groan of the building's steel framework as it started to fold in around the shattered load-bearing wall. They didn't build them like they used to. But it was time to get out before the whole building came down around them.

"Time to make a hole," Hogarth muttered.

He brought one of the M247Ts online, his primary display showing a view from the mounting's camera. Lining it up on the far wall, Hogan tapped the fire key. The muzzle flash of the machine gun illuminated the room, throwing shadows around. He watched the fall of the initial burst and corrected. Armor-piercing 7.62x51mm ammunition tore through the obstacles, cutting apart flimsy furniture and blasting apart the far wall. That would do it.

The floor suddenly tilted, sending them forward again. He could hear Blaine struggling with the controls to keep them steady. They plowed through two floors, various detritus passing over their windshield. Just as suddenly, God Hand came to a stop atop a pile of debris as tall as a man. But they were outside. That was always a plus.

"I think your stunts are going to kill us before the Covenant do, sir," Meyer commented from his post. "Reports across the board, our men are on the ground and rolling out."

"That's the spirit," Hogarth said, releasing a breath he wasn't aware he had been holding. "Get HIGHCOM on the line. Tell them that the Forty-third is now on the ground."

"I'll tell them that, sir."

* * *

**Lumumba Road, New Mombasa, Earth**

**1009 Military Standard Time**

"I still think plan is silly," Ibak Son of Wipaw said.

"Not best of times to question," Hemmep of the Scarred Plateau said, cuffing his subordinate's head lightly. "Listen to Prophets. Remember training."

"Training? What training?"

Hemmep sighed. As Unggoy, they were the lowest of the low. Even the heretical worms of this planet had to look down to spit on them. And that wasn't just because of their stature. They were the ones that the Covenant relied upon for a labor pool, but their same betters brooked no complaints from them. It was always "Unggoy servile! Have no ambitions of betterment! Is happy being stupid!" around their commanders. The fact that the Prophets recently systematically destroyed of their language after the Nineteenth Disobedience did not help their case. Even the most intelligent of the Unggoy could barely string together words in the common tongue. And wrapping their lips around the personal pronouns were far too difficult. They couldn't even remember the old tongue. He could barely even think in it anymore.

At least their commanders hadn't minded it. Compared to the brute-like Jiralhanae, their Sangheili officers were distant but leagues better. Their punishment for failure was death, not live consumption like with the Jiralhanae. Better to be killed cleanly than be eaten live. That was Hemmep's philosophy.

They had been packed into a wild hodgepodge of landing craft, older DX-class "forks" and the newer Spirit-class dropships. Whatever they were, they were probably more likely to fall right out of the sky instead of landing them in front of the heretics' guns. And that was assuming they weren't just shot out of the sky. But such was the lot of the Unggoy.

The speakers were piping in the calming chorals of the Forty-ninth Psalm of Joyous Reunion. Probably trying to keep the Unggoy from going mad in the confines of the dropship bays. Hemmep looked around his new command. He had earned his scarlet veteran's armor years ago, but only recently had he been assigned to lead large formations.

He hadn't had the time to learn their names, but that hardly seemed like a concern now. They had a goal: secure a landing site for the rest of the force or die trying. They were probably going to die. And Hemmep had such a fine record of keeping alive, too. He raised and kissed both of his knuckles, his customary good luck charm. Every little thing helped when you managed to survive over a decade in service to the Prophets.

The lights switched from white to red, bathing them in scarlet. They were on their final approach.

"Prepare all arms!" he shouted to the others, his voice coming out high-pitched thanks to the methane-helium mix that filled his tank. He brandished his plasma pistol. "Prepare for glory!"

"Glory!" someone chimed in the back.

Hemmep shuffled nervously, his tank bumping against one of his subordinates. He longed to be out of his harness and tank and in the relative comfort of a methane suite. His mask's straps were digging into his skin again. He didn't dare adjust it now. Who knew how long they had before landing? So he suffered the chafing, mumbling a quick string of prayer to the Lords for protection.

They were slowing down. Perhaps they would make it to the ground? He was feeling light-headed. The breathing mix was off. Too much helium, maybe?

"Landing in three!" the voice of their pilot said in the silence.

"Ready yourselves! May we meet once again on the Great Journey!" Hemmep shouted.

"We are landed!" their pilot announced, his words accompanied by the sound of the anti-gravity pods dropping in pitch. "Hatches opening!"

"Clear doors immediately," Hemmep said, reminding some of the more scatterbrained of his troop. "Secure area around landing site and defend!"

Silence. That was either good or bad. Knowing their tendencies, it was more of the latter. How he wished that there was a Sangheili officer around to drum in some discipline.

The hatches opened and Hemmep found himself being pushed out by the mass of his brothers into a new world. It was time to fight again. Would this battle be his last? Or might he survive to see Balaho again? He shrieked a battle cry and charged out into the sun.

* * *

**Lumumba Road, New Mombasa, Earth**

**1007 Military Standard Time**

The one thing that Sergeant Mack Gerhardt hadn't expected was to come face-to-face with his friend's off-duty Weapon System Technologies CQ-4 back-up pistol. From this perspective, he could actually see the tip of the semi-armor piercing high explosive frangible round in its chamber. It seemed awful large.

"Chuck, it's me," he said slowly, his hands raised. "Mack Gerhardt. Do you mind lowering your back-up?"

Officer Charles Grey maintained his bead for a moment, his arms extended in a perfect isosceles shooting stance. After a moment, he lowered his pistol. Slightly shorter than the rest of the tactical team, he had a head of overly curly hair that set him apart from the others. Right then, he looked even shorter.

"About damn time you showed up," he said. "Top's in here, too."

"Top?" Gerhardt asked, surprised. "He lives here?"

Grey nodded. "Coupla floors above us. Got him a pretty sweet deal after the divorce."

"Is Joss okay?" Brown asked.

"Yeah, sorta," Grey said, brow furrowing. "The plasma superheated the pipes. She was washing up after breakfast. Got burned pretty bad. Top's keeping an eye on her."

_Jesus, that had to hurt._

Williams hefted his medical kit and shouldered past the other two uniformed tactical officers. "I got a full spread, want me to have a look?"

"Thanks, brother," Grey said, resting a hand on his shoulder. "Hang to the right."

"Any time," Williams said, walking in. "Hey, Top, it's Hector!" he shouted into the apartment as he entered.

Grey shrugged, looking at Gerhardt and Brown. "Come on in. Sorry 'bout that."

"It happens," Gerhardt said, patting his shoulder as he walked in.

It said something about a tactical officer's salary that Grey hadn't been able to afford too many furnishings beyond the basics. Hey, if you didn't do some extra-curricular activities for Kinsler, you weren't getting much at all. Gerhardt looked around as he walked in and Grey secured the door behind them. The thin plaster walls that hid the water pipes had split and were dripping water onto the worn carpet. Several buckets had been set out to catch the water but were mostly full already and could barely catch half of the leaks.

Turning right, he found himself looking at a darkened living room not unlike his own. It looked properly lived in, even with the water damage and the lack of lighting. At least they had-

"Hold," the voice of Senior Sergeant Jonas Blane said from the shadows. "Listen."

Gerhardt stripped his helmet off and craned his head. He had been partially deafened from the volume of gunfire in the last twenty minutes that it took some time to focus and hear what it was that their team commander was telling them to hear. The whine of Covenant anti-gravity drives was unmistakable even from the depths of the building. He could feel his breathing accelerate, his neck prickle from the dreaded whispering whine of the dropships.

"Gentlemen, prepare to defend yourselves," he breathed. "Top, can you move?"

"Just enough," Blane said, rising up out of the darkness. "We need equipment. Weapons."

"_No_, we need to get the hell out of here," Gerhardt said, shaking his head. "We're in a fucking bullet magnet of a building. We pop our heads out to try and take them, we'll get smoked. Chuck, you know if northern staircase is in working order? The southern one is partially blown."

"Shit, yeah," Grey said worriedly, rubbing the back of his neck. "I don't think that should be a problem for us. The southern staircase should be clear straight down to the garage."

"What're we waiting for, then?" Gerhardt asked. "Let's go!"

* * *

**Old Mombasa, Earth**

**0956 Military Standard Time**

"Where the hell are these guys coming from?" Wraith One, Master Sergeant Class Gary Waldau complained as he dropped another roach with a burst from his scoped MA5K.

Wraith Five, Sergeant First Class Randy Strong only grunted as he fired his M392, rapidly acquiring and taking down targets in the swarm. Plasma fire flew around them, burning into the cinderblocks of the hallway. It was a race between them and the alien insectoids to see who could get to the downed pilot first. The only difference being that the two Wraiths were there to rescue the Chair Force jock while the buggers were probably going to eat him or something.

In the tight confines of the building, things tended to get rather intimate. But they had seen the buggers' razor-sharp mandibles and rather preferred it if things didn't get particularly intimate. They had done a good job of keeping it that way, leaving a trail of dead and wounded behind them as they made their way toward the transponder.

"We're getting bogged down," Five said. "Frag?"

"Offensive," One said, shaking his head.

"Offensive," Five agreed after a second. "Now."

They both palmed M9O offensive grenades and primed them with a press of the primer-mounted trigger. Then they flung them toward the top of the staircase where they barely bounced off of the ceiling before detonating. The shockwave of the grenade detonation did its work. Both operators charged up through the wave of hot wind to find a scene of utter desolation.

Unlike the general-issue C-series fragmentation grenades, the O-series were offensive grenades. They had no fragmentation casing, only a plastic case over five hundred grams of C-13 plastic explosive that would produce little fragmentation. The damage was caused by the overpressure of the detonation, amplified by the enclosed environment.

Several of the aliens had been outright pulped, rendered into a greenish-gray slurry and broken glittering carapace fragments. Others were still recognizable as the aliens they were. Those had been partially crushed against the walls of the hallway, their ichor dribbling onto the floor. Nothing moving. Nothing alive. Good. Five waved One forward, their weapons still up and scanning the darkness just in case. They were right below the transponder if their visor readouts were correct.

The Skyhawk had crashed into a tall commercial building, embedding itself into the electrical room that took up the top floor. Inconvenient for all parties involved. Particularly since the aliens had gotten on-site faster than the two operators. Rounding a corner past shot-out windows into a board room, they finally found the stairs up to the next floor. Contacts appeared on their motion trackers. Not good.

One and Five ghosted up the stairs, dusty wraiths to any who could see them. They immediately saw the pilot and the situation he was in.

Captain Tyler Nyame's Skyhawk had shattered its nose on the floor of the electrical room. Massive electric switchboards had been tossed aside by the impacts, torn from their moorings to dislodge towering electrical substations. All of the twisted metal was illuminated by the improvised skylight left over from the landing. And then there was the matter of the dozen or so roaches in the air around the downed strike fighter. They were spraying inaccurate plasma pistol fire at the fuselage, occasionally met and countered by Nyame's submachine gun poking out of the shattered canopy. The jockey had spirit.

So did the aliens for the matter, but their spirit was easily countered with well-placed single shots from the two Wraiths. The alien insectoids screeched and chattered as they were rapidly and efficiently taken down. Their jacketed hollow cavity rounds acted much like miniature fragmentation grenades once they penetrated the carapace of the aliens. One advanced with Five right behind him, their rifles' muzzles seemingly twitching back and forth as they acquired and downed target after target as they walked into the midst of the storm.

Now aware of the new presence, the roaches could do little to counter them before being cut down to the last. No prisoners. No allowances for prisoners. The two operators stood back to back, surrounded by spent and still-smoking casings as well as the bodies of their targets.

"Friendlies," Five called to the trapped captain in the silence. He broke away to move up next to the canopy to bang on it. "Coming up!"

"You're a sight for sore eyes," the captain managed. "I'm almost out of ammo."

One hurried over as well to inspect the damage. The crumple-zones had been totaled by the landing, most of the nose-mounted sensor package scattered across the floor in small pieces. They still had a mission, though. The canopy's explosive bolts had been sheared off in the crash, and the metal frame had been bent out of shape. Nothing that a yard of thermo-carbon ribbon wasn't going to solve.

"I'm on it," he said to Five as he slung his carbine in favor of the demolition kit he carried in a hip pack. "Captain, you may want to keep your arms and legs tucked in for this," he said to the jockey. "We're going to get you out of there."

Unspooling a loop of the thermite-carbon ribbon, One set to work taping the cloth-wrapped strip to the base of the canopy frame. Two blobs of C-7 on the hinges sealed the deal. Plugging the detonator in, he transmitted the key to Five. The XO had the honors.

"Tuck 'em in, sir," One reminded the captain, trying to keep his usual flippant attitude from leaking into his tone.

"Fire in the hole," Five said.

The thermo-carbon ribbon went off like a charm, igniting and flaring a blinding white as the thermite-carbon compound underwent an extreme exothermic reaction that would eat through naval-grade armor. Its sizzling was accompanied by two simultaneous detonations as the foaming explosive took the hinges out. It was over in seconds, the canopy frame partially melted. One let out a breath he had been holding. He had always followed the adage of "P stands for plenty" and it was good to see he had calculated correctly. Otherwise they might have wound up with pieces of an Air Force officer instead of an intact and breathing one.

"Okay," Five said, gesturing to One.

The two operators climbed aboard the top of the crashed aircraft to get their hands around the sides of the cut-out canopy. Their force-amplifying circuits didn't even have to strain, the shattered metal coming away like a turnip out of mud. Metal crumpled under their hands as they pried still-smoldering wreckage away from the pilot.

"Up you get, sir," One said as they tore the jump seat straight out of the now-opened cockpit. "Anything broken?"

"Nothing," Nyame said, shaking his head. "Can we get out of here?"

"Just what we're doing, sir," he said. "Five?"

Five accessed their SQUADCOM. "Six, this is Five. Package has been secured. Moving out."

* * *

**Old Mombasa Airspace, Earth**

**0958 Military Standard Time**

Packed to its limit, the AC-220B Marabou's troop bay was a cramped space filled with olive-drab armor, weaponry, and angry men and women. Staff Sergeant Nathan Sands tried his best to bite back his fear. The air smelled of gun oil and sweat. Strapped into his seat, he looked up at the Marines strapped in across from them.

The 220B Marabou was a troop-carrying variant of the classic Vulture "guns with wings" gunship. It had its original vertical-launch missile systems stripped out along with the majority of its Argent missile stores, leaving it with limited close air support capability. This was exactly as planned. The vertical-launch systems took up much of the space in the gunship. Their removal made much more space to transport infantry. They weren't being transported _comfortably_, but they were at least being transported. The fact that it took far too long for a Marabou to land troops was not going to be an issue today.

The entire regiment had been shoved into the transports and dropped off when the _Five Rounds Rapid_ breached atmosphere for just that purpose before heading back up for the "real" fight. He didn't envy them or the fighter jocks who had been flying close protection for the regiment's transports. Nobody felt particularly anxious to go face the enemy, either.

The company sergeant was clearly enjoying himself though, First Sergeant Tony Scalazi shouting over the hull-penetrating throb of the transport's fans. "When we hit the ground, you will reach toward your right shoulder and pull the yellow tab there! That will separate your harness from your person! Failure to do so may result in death! Do I make myself clear, rocket boys?"

They responded as one. "Yes, First Sergeant!"

"That's what I like to hear! I want all of you to remember your plummet buddies- "

The review wasn't actually necessary. The Twenty-First Rangers were all jump-harness qualified as part of their qualification. It didn't mean that they _liked_ having chemical jets strapped to their backs, but they knew how to steer the things and fly in formation. At least the M5 was programmable for the Marines who hadn't paid as much attention during their own familiarization briefs.

He sat back and listened in on the conversation. It was more of an exchange of insults.

"Hey, you Devil Dogs just hope those packs are strapped on tight. Don't want a whole buncha dirt divers," Staff Sergeant Briggs called over the rumble permeating the bay, grinning. "Want the statistics for our wonder packs?"

Corporal Jal Manson laughingly protested next to him, "Hey, come on, Sarge! Don't go scaring these guys so bad they can't make the drop! They're our fuckin' support, man!"

"You boys scared?" Sergeant Mary Van Lente shouted to the Marines. "These losers just need a little loving! Gotta bite back is all!"

Sands chuckled to himself and tried to pay attention to the "personalized" briefing being given by the battalion S-2 AI through his COM.

"-placing your squad on point. Advance along the main road until you link up with Defiance armor elements. From there you will be moving east to relieve an ONI reconnaissance team. Current projections of opposition stand at four battalion-sized elements of Covenant: three battalion elements of 'Grunts' and one battalion element of 'Elites' who act their commanders. Standing orders remain to shoot to kill. Intelligence does not need subjects for interrogation. Do you understand these orders?"

"Loud and clear, Scribe," Sands said, nodding and looking at his squad. They would be receiving the same marching orders. "Okay, everyone ready to roll?"

Thumbs up. Good.

"Murph, Billy, I want your two-four-seven-bravo hot to the touch, understand? Anything you tag is worth tagging again!" he shouted to his squad's two machine gunners. They nodded as Scalazi started speaking again.

"We're not taking prisoners, and we're not wasting ammo, so I want to see some clean little headshots! Alien fuckers want to try and take our home? I don't think so! Prepare for drop, sound off!"

His squad's status lights went green. He passed that up to Lieutenant Meehan with a green-light of his own. Third Squad was ready. He knew that these lights would be passing up the food chain of command, indicating that the entire unit was ready for combat drop.

"Second Company ready for drop!" Scalazi bellowed into the wall-mounted COM. Ever the showman, their First Sergeant was particularly handy with his M45 Tactical. "Assume the position, ladies and gentlemen!"

His MA37 was secured diagonally by the two magnetic clamps built into his chest armor plates. In case of a spill, it would keep the stock from breaking his jaw, and it also kept the grip of the bullpup close at hand. It freed up his back to carry the jump-harness, his pack going around his legs. Good thing they had strength-amplifying circuits. He tucked his chin in and his hands gripped the joysticks built into the jump-harness's sides. This was going to suck.

"Drop in three! Two! One!" Scalazi counted off. "Drop, drop, drop! Get out of my-"

The floor dropped out from underneath Nate Sands and the rest of Second Company, Third Battalion of the Twenty-Fifth Ranger Regiment. Their folding seats had retracted downward, and they fell through repurposed bomb chutes, plummeting into open sky. He spun in the air, the weight of his pack swing him around. Sands felt his stomach lurch before his harness finally ignited. First order of business was stabilizing his fall. He was five hundred meters above the city before he finally managed to correct his tumble.

His neural interface highlighted the drop zone below him. Simple enough. He adjusted his harness's controls slightly to optimize his descent. Wouldn't want to clip a concrete column on his way down. They were dropping into Old Mombasa, likely surrounded. He wouldn't have it any other way. His fear had given way to a giddy excitement at encountering the Covenant. Most of the unit had similar attitudes. This was what they wanted.

They dropped lower before the Covenant on the ground decided to respond. The wind, and blue-white plasma rushed past his head. He noted several friendly icons disappear from his visor's tactical displays. Already casualties. The Marines had it worse, though. Their preprogrammed flight paths were hardly safe. He saw two whole squads disappear, engulfed by the bone-burning plasma once the aliens below figured out how to lead their targets.

Lower and lower, the company's descent was slowed only by their harnesses. The wind screamed past his ears as he realigned himself to minimize his profile even more. Dodging a burst of plasma, he was made aware of how hot the triamino hydrazine burned when the flare was momentarily played over his boots. It felt like his feet were melting for that brief second that his armored footwear was under the nozzle.

They were coming in hard and fast, but it wasn't anything that the harness wouldn't handle. His knees were probably going to hurt, though. He could pick out the sources of the streams of fire now. He adjusted his harness's thrust settings to flare in four seconds. That would burn whatever fuel was left in reserve and leave him to fall about three meters if his helmet-integrated rangefinder was accurate.

Three. He could see the rest of his company falling in around him, all on their final burns as well. Minimal casualties. Good. They would need all the men they could get for the coming battle.

Two. The rooftops of the dropzone was rushing up to meet him. He could see Covenant. The sound of the wind was deafening.

One. His hands prepared to grab his MA37, ready to pull it off of its mounting. He let his knees go loose for the imminent impact.

Flare. The harness's thrust nozzles simultaneously flared. He felt as if a god had tried to wrench his arms out of his sockets. The straps dug into his unarmored underarms as the miniature turbines worked to burn through the hydrazine reservoir as quickly as possible. His descent was arrested for a brief second before gravity reasserted itself on him once the harness gave one last gasp.

Impact. The balls of Sands's feet hit the ground first, his armored boots chipping the asphalt. He could feel the impact move up his body. It was like getting kicked in the teeth when the shockwave hit his head. He allowed the momentum to carry him forward to perform a shoulder roll forward onto his feet again, now without the annoying excess momentum. His rifle had come away from its magnetic mountings somewhere during the deceleration roll. He had been so well drilled that coming up ready from a roll was reflexive for him.

His squad landed around him, rolling to their own stops and their weapons coming up. He looked up at the skies. Bad choice.

He could see more Rangers descending, but beyond them was a complete nightmare. Crisscrossing lines of plasma streaked the few clouds in the morning sky. Hundreds of Covenant fast-movers battled with a dwindling number of Air Force and Navy jockeys. Even the Navy had begun bringing their smaller ships into lower orbit for support. The air was occasionally split by a deafening peal of thunder when a UNSC frigate's MAC fired at a Covenant ship. Inefficient but necessary now. He could see more and more dropships descending from the sky. Some would make it, others torn from the sky by plasma.

But then the skies really lit up. What had previously been the rapid strobes of plasma, conventional muzzle flash, and explosions was replaced by a growing light that illuminated the heavens. The clouds were boiling.

"Fucking hell!" one of the Rangers nearby screamed. "The sky! Look at the fucking sky!"

A flash bleached out their surroundings as something massive beyond words entered the atmosphere. Sands could make out a shape falling through the atmosphere. It seemed as if the clouds had caught fire as the titanic Covenant ship descended. The ship was brilliant silver, catching the rays of sunlight along its inhuman curved surfaces.

It looked like an alien whale, gleaming in all of its terrible beauty as it descended like a fallen angel. Trails of reentry plasma flared out intermittently from beneath it, each flash bright enough to be a substitute for the sun. He could see the ship slow, point-defense lasers flashing, their beams visible for brief seconds as they swatted unseen aggressors out of the sky.

Gradually it came to a stable altitude approximately nine hundred meters above the waters south of New Mombasa. And then it seemed as if its belly exploded. A dark cloud of specks swarmed out of the gigantic ship's ventral surfaces, rapidly dispersing throughout the city. Landing forces. The Covenant were here and here in force.

"Squad, form up on me!" Sands shouted, checking his new orders. "We've got trade!"

* * *

**Office of Naval Intelligence Classified Archives: Section I Reconnaissance Operators**

Section I's Reconnaissance units represent years of training and thousands of credits invested in training. These operators are usually drawn from Army Special Forces and Air Force Pararescue units but anyone can join, and many try. Each Selection course usually starts with approximately five hundred candidates. By the end of the course, there are usually four to six remaining candidates. These graduates are then put through a year of intensive training in any and all fields that may prove to be useful in the field. An individual operator is subsequently well-versed in modern tradecraft as well as the ability to utilize any weapon in the UNSCDF arsenal. A _team_ of these operators is capable of identifying and suppressing potential uprisings. However, there exists a secretive group of Reconnaissance operators, the "Wraiths." Handpicked from the best of the general population of Reconnaissance operators, the Wraiths are given a series of augmentation based on old ORION protocols that have been refined. The subsequent Wraith operator is a force to be reckoned with, capable of performing superhuman feats that only the bravest or craziest could even think of attempting.

* * *

Author's Rant: Another day, another chapter. Review as necessary, and feel free to shout and rant at me.

EDIT: For those of you who like some BGM, imagine the Hoch Heidecksburg March as Hogarth's theme.

And for a moment to respond to the C&C:

FraserMage: Heh, unfortunately no. I'm taking a bit of artistic license here and making the tech-fluff shiny but believable. The M5 is a single-shot harness like the retros you can fit a 'Mech with for hot drops. You can keep those things strapped on, but it'd just be dead weight once the fuel's used up.


	6. Chapter V

"You ever notice that all of the aliens in the movies 'come in peace' with their ray guns out? Show me a peaceful alien and I'll show you an apologetic Sig-Oct."

- Greg Carmichael (Gunnery Sergeant; Retired); "Loud And Unapologetic: Four Decade of Laughs"; 2561

* * *

**UNSC Five Rounds Rapid, Earth Space**

**0944 Military Standard Time**

"Significant damage to lower decks," Chester reported. "Fires approaching the SOEIV launch tubes. Recommend-"

"Yes, I know," Admiral Jalila Chavez snarled. "Tac-Two, I want Archers Six and Seven fired when in position with Hotel-One-Zero-Niner-Niner-Juliet. Tac-One, fire when ready, double-tap Hotel-One-Zero-Niner-Eight-Juliet. Tac-Three, solution for firing Archers One and Three at Hotel-One-Eight-Niner-Eight-Juliet. Fire when in position."

With Lieutenant Louis Fries at the helm, a strong stomach and good sense of balance was necessary in combat. The man handled piloting massive cruisers like a hotshot controller flew his Wombat UCAV. It wasn't a bad thing, not when his driving kept good people alive.

The stars and silent explosions swirled as Fries somehow managed to coax the _Five Rounds Rapid_ into a forward-somersaulting barrel roll. It wasn't so much a maneuver to avoid fire this time. No, this particular acrobatic feat had a more offensive nature in mind. As they turned, it rolled fresh armor to meet plasma. But that wasn't the reason for it. The barrel roll brought banks of Archer missiles to bear on a Covenant corvette analogue. The forward "flip" also lined the MACs up with a destroyer analogue, following them up with even more Archers once it finished rotating.

To an external observer, the _Five Rounds Rapid_ with its dark gray battleplate would have seemed to have its nose explode in a flash of muted light for a brief second. The actual results were much more gruesome. With much of their shielding stripped away, the previously formidable Archer missiles were deadly once again.

Corvette H-1099J was torn in half by the storm of sixty anti-ship missiles. Its hull warped and shattered as the bridge crew watched the broadside with mild interest. All targeted on literally a single point, the Archer missiles made easy work of the purple alloy armor of the Covenant ship. It seemed as if a sun had emerged from within the alien ship, eating its way out one side of the hull to completely bisect the ship. A catastrophic kill. But they had no time to celebrate.

Even as the _Five Rounds Rapid_ rolled out from firing its broadside, its nose came to settle on Destroyer H-1898J. The moment it was aligned, the twinned Magnetic Accelerator Cannons fired one after the other. The shields flashed as they managed to absorb the first shot. The second one had much of its momentum stripped away by the shield before it managed to punch through. It _only_ broke the ventral ridge as the shields overloaded. That opened the destroyer up for a much more intimate death, the Archers exploiting the disabled shields, tearing apart the mortally-wounded ship.

"Shot. Line One, Line Two, cleared. Loaded. Charging," Lieutenant Joanna Al-Egypti reported.

"I want a solution on that Charlie-Two-Sierra ASAP. Comms, send the rest of Five-Two-Nine-Two our telemetry if you haven't already."

"One step ahead of you," Lieutenant Thom Winters said, his hands dancing across his station's controls.

Ordinarily, Covenant ships possessed a massive advantage over the Navy thanks to just about everything about their technology. But rocks beat lasers any day of the week if you applied enough rocks. Especially when "rock" meant "six-hundred ton depleted uranium and tungsten spikes with steel driving bands being fired at roughly a third of the speed of light." Particularly when there were many rocks, and where there were more rock throwers than lasers. But in principle, the metaphor is correct.

More flashes of silver shot past her, the rest of the formation firing on the designated target. More maneuverable than the _Marathon_-class, they also supplemented the _Five Rounds Rapid_ fighter complement with sizeable flights of their own.

Squadrons of Longsword interceptors flew past, chasing or being chased. There were shattered ship carcasses floating haphazardly in the void, small fragments ricocheting off of the _Five Rounds Rapid_'s hull as they flew through debris clouds to close in on a target. This was one of the things that the movies never got right. Two ships going nose to nose, turning and jockeying for the one good shot to cripple or destroy their opponent. That might have been true in the battles of yesteryear, but modern naval doctrine had changed.

Carried by residual momentum, wrecked ships from both sides drifted through space in decaying orbits around Earth like deadly clouds. Gray battleplate was intermingled with the purple alloy that the Covenant loved using. Fighters were the fastest presence on the battlefield, dodging around each other and the mobile clouds of debris. Ribbons of tracer fire were met with streams of plasma. Longsword pilots waltzed with their Covenant counterparts through irregular lines of fifty-millimeter fire and pencil-thin lasers barely visible with all of the microscopic debris scattering coherent light.

They plowed through what might have been either a Covenant capital ship or a large graveyard of Covenant single ships. Either way, more and more debris was bouncing off of their holed hide. They wouldn't be joining them if Chavez had anything to say about it.

"Break engagement," she said after a moment's thought. "Bring us to high orbit. Comms, give me HIGHCOM."

"You're on," Winters said a second later.

"HIGHCOM, this is _Five Rounds Rapid_," she said. "Any ground hotspots you need help with?"

"Majority of Covenant forces attempting to land in the East African airspace," the HIGHCOM officer on the other side said hurriedly. "Concentrations primarily around Mombasa and Kenya at large. Local forces requesting support."

"Well tell them that the cavalry's here," Chavez said. "We're going to be putting down our troops ASAP."

"Understood, _Five Rounds Rapid_," the officer said. "HIGHCOM out."

The moment they were disconnected, Chavez started issuing a fresh series of orders. "Helm, break from engagement. Bring our belly down into atmo. Comms, sound the general alarm for a combat drop. Helljumpers on full alert, and get our Army and Marine friends into the landers. I don't care what kind, just do it!"

* * *

**HIGHCOM Facility Bravo-6, Sydney, Earth**

**0958 Military Standard Time**

Fully active, the tactical operations centers pulsed with activity. Officers manning consoles routinely shouted status reports to each other as they managed the chaotic battlefield that was Earth. Each man and woman had a designated area of operations where they exercised macromanagement over the units within the area of operations. To accomplish that, each control console was manned by not only an experienced commander, but also an AI to enable the orders.

"Evangeline, bring up all armored assets in Mombasa," Captain Ali Firimbi said quietly into his headset as he worked to stem the flow of Covenant out from Mombasa. "Old Mombasa needs to be cleared out. Bring…Defiance on."

"Understood, Captain. Patching through to Defiance Actual."

* * *

**Old Mombasa, Earth**

**0958 Military Standard Time**

"Colonel, HIGHCOM for you, sir."

"Excellent!" Colonel Thomas Hogarth shouted, making sure to speak louder than what the microphone was undoubtedly picking up in the background. "HIGHCOM, this is Defiance Actual. How may we be of service today?"

A neutral feminine voice responded. "This is Evangeline, Defiance Actual. What's your ETA on linking up with the infantry?"

"Presently at…" He glanced over at the back of Specialist Emile Meyer who held up a full hand with splayed fingers. "Five minutes. Is there a problem?"

"Something of the sort, Defiance," the voice said. It was definitely an AI on the other end, likely a splinter of a full smart AI not unlike Katrina. There were certain vocal cues missing. "Now streaming new coordinates."

Almost immediately new data started appearing and replacing his previous orders on the screens. He found it strange why they hadn't just amended his previous orders. But then again, the ways of HIGHCOM were still a mystery to him after all these years. Fascinating things the data displays surrounding his seat like a cocoon. The new path seemed fairly rational in its route.

"Load high-explosive!" Hogarth bellowed over the whine of God Hand's turbine. "Meyer, pass the word with the new orders! We're going hunting!"

Just then, someone wearing an oddly stripped-down variant of ODST body armor splattered in purple ichor stepped out of the shadows. Nothing showed up on the sensors. A spook?

"Defiance Actual, this is Wraith Six," a familiar female voice said. "You mind not pointing that gun at me? I've got four plus five, and we could use a ride."

* * *

**UNSC Five Rounds Rapid SOEIV Ready Room, Earth Orbit**

**0947 Military Standard Time**

The ready rooms were a heaving mass of black armor plates and angry Marines. The Orbital Drop Shock Troopers were as they claimed, always ready for a fight. This fight just happened to be a hell of a lot closer to home. Sergeant Mohammed Samakab Wilhelm tightened his armor seals on his right arm before picking up the next piece of the armor. There were already-armored Shock Troopers circulating around the room with spray-cans offering improvised paintjobs, and the odor of the high-temperature paint almost overwhelming.

"Yo, Madoowbe, you packed your ammo?" Sergeant Lenore Gibbs asked as she chambered a round into her M7. "'Cause you're not mooching off me this time. Not again, man."

"Don't worry about it," Wilhelm said as he secured his shoulder plates. "I'm not."

Their all-black ODST combat rig cost twenty thousand credits and was still made at the lowest bidder. Each Shock Trooper represented an investment in time and knowledge, a year and a half spent first on selection and then operator training. They were finely-tuned killing human machines. And Command still saw fit to chuck them out of low orbit in less-than-reliable drop pods. It's wasn't the concept that was disturbing to some of them, but the logic of leaving an expensive investment to the whims of a poorly-built drop pod was. But that wasn't what he was preoccupied with, though.

Wilhelm was quite noticeable considering the degree of homogenization that humanity had undergone. Man wasn't a uniform beige, but they were certainly making inroads. But he certainly wasn't. His skin was dark enough to make the plasma scar that mottled his right temple look lily-white. He was ethnically Somali, born and raised in Mogadishu. And he had been querying the UNSC in-system intranet about the status of the old city ever since the warning order. How far had the Covenant spread? Was Mogadishu glassed? Was it being glassed? Where were his parents?

"Okay, listen up Third Platoon!" Lieutenant Wayne Staedtler shouted. "We're going to be dropping into Mombasa in five! You got family there, then it's your lucky day, 'cause you get to save them today! Load up by teams!"

The ODSTs operated differently from the rest of the UNSC Marine Corps. The smallest component of an ODST unit was the combat team, typically numbering between six to fifteen operators. Those teams scaled up to troops, then companies. In the case of the Thirty-fourth Shock Trooper Battalion, there were only two remaining companies numbering a total of sixty-seven operators including the whole command staff. They had taken massive casualties over the last year out. Now they were being dropped back into the saddle again.

"Staff Sergeant," he said, walking up to Staff Sergeant Parker Sweet. "Any word from the surface about the cities?"

"Madoowbe," Sweet said, laying his armored glove on his shoulder plate. "I mean this is the nicest way possible, but get your damn head in the game, Trooper. We're dropping in five, and the Lieutenant needs all of his team leaders on the bounce." He paused for a second, his faceplate depolarizing before he continued more softly. "Nothing so far. It looks like the Covenant are focusing on a few sites. Mogadishu doesn't look like one of them. The civilian COM sats have been knocked out, so…"

"Got it," Wilhelm said, nodding gratefully before he pulled his helmet on. "Thanks, Staff Sergeant."

"Anytime," Sweet said as he locked his rucksack in place on his upper back plate.

Armed and armored, the ODSTs looked like lean, mean sons of bitches. Part of the original design of their armor had been for psychological impact. They were supposed to take the fighting spirit right out of the people who saw them. And it had worked out pretty well with the Insurrection. These aliens on the other hand, they were a different story. Wilhelm wasn't too sure if they had the same reaction to the all-black and the shape of the armor like humans did.

He had other things to worry about now. Walking over to Corporal Hank Willis from Team Four, he raised his arms to let the man work over his plates with his two spray-cans. A minute later, Wilhelm looked like some sort of dusty wraith with long blobs of earthy and monochromatic tones that broke his outline up. It certainly beat the time Willis had painted up the whole platoon in purple and orange dazzle. Admittedly, it _had_ out worked pretty well, and these were still better than the standard issue "panels" they were supposed to be using.

"Okay," Wilhelm said with a nod as he looked around at the other ODSTs. "Better get with your team. Looks like we're about ready."

Willis nodded and headed back to join his team. Wilhelm commanded Team Two, a five-man close quarters battle element. His M7 was unadorned except for modified luminescent sights. Unlike some of his fellow operators, he preferred to go low-drag. While most operators liked the spare toys they could get for their weapons, nothing that could catch on anything in close quarters would be attached to his weapon. He'd already been bitten once. Literally. No chancing that again.

His assistant team leader Sergeant Max Thorvaldsen walked up to him, scraping a bit of paint that had wound up on his faceplate. "Madoowbe, you dialed in?"

Wilhelm nodded to his friend of a decade. "Yeah, is the team together?"

Thorvaldsen nodded as he adjusted his helmet seals slightly. Briefings and pep talks were generally unnecessary with ODSTs. Largely self-motivated, they only needed a target and some ammunition. It still didn't hurt to get a general lay of their emotional landscape right then.

The two Shock Troopers pushed through the assembling ranks of their company. Team Two was already loading their gear into their SOEIV pods. Before embarkation for the relief mission, they had numbered a dozen men and women. Now…

Wilhelm checked his TACPAD for the updated COM frequencies and orders which would then be cascaded down to his team upon link-up. Those were quickly linked to his helmet's COM along with a list of preliminary objectives. Praise the lords and the traditional _Auftragstaktik_ style of command amongst the _Five Rounds Rapid_'s ODSTs. He reattached the pad to his forearm plate as he approached his team.

"Listen up," he said to his team as he came to a stop in front of his pod to load the last of his ordnance in. "Play it smart, okay? We're going to be fighting on friendly soil. Earth soil. We're going to drive the aliens off the planet, but I don't want any of you taking any stupid-ass chances. I've spent far too much time working on you guys to let you get yourselves killed for some retardation. You get me?"

"Yeah, yeah," Corporal Joshua Kerr said as he tested his draw on his M90. He had taped it up against orders, but commanders tended to be a little more lenient with Shock Troopers. But his mouth had a habit of working faster than his brain, which tended to be a big problem around commanding officers. Nevertheless, Wilhelm would have trusted nobody else to lead his entry team. "Anything else for us aside from the pep talk?"

"Looks like a target-rich environment," Wilhelm said. "Straight dope says that we'll be dropping in to support Army armor to clear the way into New Mombasa."

"Ass? I like the sound of that," Kerr said, collapsing the stock of the combat shotgun. "Do we have air to go along with it?" he asked as he clipped more slug shells into the holder he'd mounted on the side of the receiver.

Wilhelm nodded. "Yeah, looks like Skyhawks for the most part."

"Tasty," PFC Scott Byron said after racking his modified MA5C into his pod. One of the older Troopers having enlisted only five years ago, he was living proof that the ODSTs only discriminated against sane people. He had a husband who worked in HIGHCOM, which tended to raise a few eyebrows about the enlisted/officer pairing. "Have a plan, Sergeant?"

"We'll see on the ground," Wilhelm said. "Are we set? Carl?"

Corporal Carl Groves nodded before pulling his helmet on. The team marksman, he had opted for one of the older BR55 scoped rifles. According to the serial number, it dated back to the start of the Eridanus II campaign. Most of the Troopers tended to tease him about "that old Innie rifle" and compared it to their own newer models which notably had fewer dings and no hash marks scratched into the Parkerized receiver. But he could still shoot impossibly straight with it, so those jokes were usually accompanying a few near-beers _gratis_. They'd be fighting in an urban environment so his skills were probably going to be put to use a lot.

"Third Platoon, load up!"

The overhead lights flashed amber. Their signal to get ready to drop. At the sound of their lieutenant's voice, the men obediently strapped themselves into their fully-loaded SOEIVs. The restraints clamped down to press them back against their vaguely padded near-vertical seats. At least they had armor. Technicians walked up and down the rows of pods, buttoning up each SOEIV for the Troopers. There was no turning back now.

Wilhelm settled back into his SOEIV's seat as a particularly burly technician slid his pod's hatch close and locked the seals in place to keep what was supposed to be inside, the ODST, from either cooking upon reentry or falling out. There had been cases of both happening and it never hurt to be sure. His screens and instrumentation lit up on both sides, tools of last resort. That was followed by the shared COM channel. His helmet instantly came alive with chatter between anxious Shock Troopers.

"-fucking hardcore, man," Corporal Sally Piper said a dozen pods down. "I mean, those Maras are sealed, but _shit_, their props don't _work_ in vacuum!"

"You just worry about your own pod," Sergeant Sawn Gruber said. "Everything else is window dressing."

The chatter remained generally light with the NCOs issuing reassurances. A voice identified as one of the _Five Rounds Rapid_'s AIs suddenly overrode their communications. "Dropping now, now, _now_. Command element is away."

There was a lurch as the next rack of occupied SOEIVs were extracted from their spindle and unceremoniously dropped into the launch tubes to be jettisoned out into the fray beneath them. Wilhelm grabbed the two joysticks intended mostly for morale rather than anything particular like flight adjustment. Flimsy polymer, he could feel the sticks giving slightly underneath his gloved hands.

He could only watch as his pod was plucked from the spindle and then turned out so his boots faced the opening of the launch tube. Craning his neck he could just begin to see the clouds of Earth below. This was looking like it was going to be a real HAHO, practically BASE jumping for the SOEIVs. Just great.

His pod was lowered, and he felt a jolt as the arm holding him up released him with the added kick of chemical rockets that slammed his shoulder plates against his rigid restraints. Years of drops had worn the shine off of this particular form of insertion, but he still liked that single perfect moment when the rockets' kick wore off and gravity hadn't figured out how to assert itself. He saw the monolithic shapes of the Navy blur past along with the iridescent purple that marked the Covenant ships. A second later, he and his team were about to hit the upper atmosphere when he saw Army AC-220B Marabous streak down towards Earth as well. There was no atmosphere for their turbines to claw at for purchase. The Army was inserting with unpowered descent, and they called ODSTs crazy.

The SOEIVs around him plunged lower, likely platoon and company command. Wilhelm leaned forward slightly and caught sight of a pair of Covenant Banshees streak upwards, their plasma cannons stitching a pattern through the descending Shock Troopers. He saw them hammer one of the Marabous before one of the purple fliers caught a face full of human armor composite when it didn't get out of the way of the shot-up Marabou. Curved plates of whatever purple metal the Banshee was jacketed in flew away in all directions as the tiny ship was turned into an expanding debris cloud.

Drawing closer to the clouds, Wilhelm was aware of his SOEIV beginning to shudder. The readouts were still green across the board. He was just hitting the atmosphere then. He saw the holed Marabou's turbines spin up as plasma flared up around the belly of the transport. After one false start, he saw it jolt and its plummet was arrested if only barely. The other transports were more successful and he saw them level out for a hard burn for the planet surface. Lords knew how they were going to land the troops with all of the fire. On the other hand, the reentry heat made the ceramic layer burn a lovely violet and green.

They shot through the cloud cover, picking up speed that extinguished the flames of reentry. The sight that greeted him took his breath away. Parts of New Mombasa were ablaze with streams of blinding plasma from elongated purple shapes that could only be Covenant ships. The outer city built on the coast was even worse. VISR-based software highlighted his most likely landing spot. Out in Old Mombasa. He was to hoping that the Covenant were too distracted here to move up north to Somalia…

* * *

**New Mombasa Airspace, Earth**

**0959 Military Standard Time**

As he watched the battle unfolding below him in holographic form, Ranger Commander Hatam 'Sraomee shifted uneasily in his new armor. The compression strip that kept his wound closed made his helmet sit uncomfortably against one side of his head. At least the Prophets had seen fit to issue him with armor. The matte black plates did not have the full-face helmet he was accustomed to, but at least there were allowances for his antigravity unit.

He longed to be at the front of the charge. To take the fight to the humans was the highest honor he could imagine. But with the wounds and the grievous casualties that his Rangers had suffered, they had been folded into one of the Fleet Special Operations units for the foreseeable future. And presently they were awaiting tasking from the Prophet of Regret himself. At least they were allowed to move freely on the bridge.

Ranger Commander Ronal 'Sraomee paced behind him, his wrists twisting in the basic movements of an old kata. If they had more room in the cramped bay, he'd likely be swinging his arms around in the sweeping motions of the kata. Patience was a trait that seemed to be found in elder Sangheili. The two commanders were hardly juvenile helioskrills, but both of them practically vibrated with the need to be in the fight. But Hatam had been wounded in addition to the losses to their commands. Which meant they were waiting for further orders and trying hard not to figure out how to stop their hearts from boredom.

A solution presented itself shortly as the doors to the Rangers' bay opened. Brevet Ranger Commander Kaha 'Moramee and several of what had been Commander 'Zazamee's troop jogged in, practically giggling like a gaggle of juvenile females.

"Hail the conquering heroes!" 'Moramee shouted, smile obvious thanks to his lack of a helmet. "Remember those foul-smelling Jiralhanae we met earlier?"

"I think it is safe to say that we remember them," Ronal 'Sraomee said in a mock-condescending manner. "Did you pick a fight with them?"

"Blood, no!" 'Moramee exclaimed, roaring with laughter. "Ranger 'Umamee, Ranger 'Inanraree, show the commanders what we managed to coerce the brutes into giving us! I believe our epics shall have a few lines for there!"

The two Rangers from 'Zazamee's troop brought forward a supply case suspended on their antigravity packs. Hatam 'Sraomee turned away from the holographic display and walked over to look at what the Rangers had brought in.

"Lords Above," he breathed as he unsealed the case. "How did they find these?"

Neatly racked into the case's charging ports were a dozen needle and repeater rifles. Their organic forms belied an utmost lethality against anything but a Mgalekgolo pair. Hatam 'Sraomee could still remember when he'd been issued his first repeater when he had been selected for Ranger indoctrination. The feel of the slick alloy under his hands… These things were practically _antiques_.

"Well, you remember those brutes and their taste for meat?" 'Moramee asked.

"I believe we all remember that," Ronal said. "Did you feed them something?"

"Oh no," 'Moramee said with a grin. "We saw their little treasures when we were coming aboard. So we took the liberty of allowing them a chance to partake in their repast. And whilst they were gorging themselves, we stole away with the weapons."

Hatam shook his head as he picked up one of the repeaters and examined it in the light. Just as he had remembered them, and he easily found the icon to link it to his helmet's displays upon cursory examination. Hefting it, he checked the mounted charge display reflexively.

"So you were common thieves," he remarked, hiding his own smile. "Stealing from our comrades the Jiralhanae?"

"Well, it was surplus," 'Umamee said, rolling his shoulders in not-particularly contrite apology. "They were using their own brutish spike rifles and we needed materiel replacement."

"Well then, I believe there is only one thing left to do," Hatam said. He twirled the repeater around and offered it to 'Moramee and smiled broadly. "Commander, I believe you shall have the honor of wielding the first of these."

"With pleasure," 'Moramee said, matching his smile and taking the repeater and clipping it to his thigh plate.

The lights of the bay suddenly shifted color subtly enough to put all of the Rangers on alert. It was a sign, their sign. It was time to be deployed.

* * *

**Old Mombasa, Earth**

**1001 Military Standard Time**

"This way!"

Running, Staff Sergeant Nathan Sands tripped on the curb and stumbled forward, ricocheting off of a signpost before continuing his run. He could see the indicator chevrons of his squad behind him as he tried to pace his lieutenant.

The streets of Old Mombasa weren't so much tangled as they were just claustrophobic. Something like a slum, many of the buildings they were passing were built like New York City tenements of the early twentieth century, each one housing hundreds of people. They loomed overhead like giant dominos just begging to be tipped over. Sands had a strong suspicion that the Covenant were going to be doing the tipping.

As if to confirm that, a burning Banshee ricocheted off of the façade of one of the buildings to tumble down onto the street in front of them. Brick and polycrete rained down after it, some of the debris large enough to set off alarms as they landed next to some of the cars. Then again, other chunks of masonry were large enough that the cars didn't have a chance to squawk at an illusory intruder.

For once, Sands missed having the full mask. He was sucking in lungfuls of smoky air as he kept pace with his platoon commander, each breath threatening to make him cough. The Covenant had only started their bombardments of the city but already large parts of it were on fire. And whatever parts weren't ablaze were going to be shortly thanks to the constant bombardment. Didn't the Covenant fast-movers have anything better to do?

A flick of his eye expanded his visor's small map as he ran. It was a wireframe of everything roughly two hundred meters around him, compiled from a combination of city blueprints and more local telemetry from other units in the area. What he saw were the other platoons of the Rangers and the Marines streaming through the streets as well as dozens of civilian signatures being funneled the other way.

That had been another problem they were being assessed of as they ran. While New Mombasa had been nicely evacuated, Old Mombasa still had large sections of the city that remained unevacuated. That meant several thousand people had to be directed out of the safely. Or as Staff Sergeant Moe Briggs preferred calling it, "herded out of the slaughterhouse." Which meant that since the Rangers, unlike the Ninth Armored, didn't have armored transport, they were stuck with getting the civvies to a safe point. But they still had some armor to link up to.

Sands vaulted over the hood of another car as another Banshee strafed the street. Asphalt melted and burned with each plasma strike. He heard someone behind him open fire, PFC Oliver Leighton according to the map. The rounds sparked off the rounded nose of the alien flier as it flew overhead.

"Save your ammo," he barked back at Leighton, voice cracking slightly.

Following Lieutenant Meehan, he rounded another corner only to nearly slam face-first into his commanding officer's pack.

"LT, what the _fuck_?" he asked, panting for breath. Protocol wasn't particularly vital right then and there. Getting off the street was.

Lauren Meehan stood stock-still for a moment in the madness before pointing at the row of vehicles across the street. "Briggs, Sands, set your squad up over there! That way!" She pointed down the street. "We've got incoming! Get me some anti-armor!"

"On it," Briggs grunted as he jogged past Sands with his own squad trailing behind him. "Okay, I need gunners _here_, and _here_!" he bellowed, pointing at two of the cars. "Everyone else, make yourselves useful and pull some cover over!" He glanced at Sands. "Nate?"

"Yeah, in a sec," he said, picking at his helmet strap as he glanced over the position and the street they were supposed to be firing down. He checked his map again. _Thought_. "Gunners, over there!" He pointed out at the conveniently-looted storefront. "Rest of you, with Sergeant Briggs's squad! Grab whatever cover you can, things are about to get busy!"

He'd seen roughly a dozen contacts moving up. Blue, friendly contacts. The computer registered them as militia units. What was chasing them was what had gotten Meehan's attention: two Covenant ground vehicles accompanied by three dozen ground units. Grunts and Elites according to shape-recognition. But it was mostly the vehicles that had his attention. Infantry armor could theoretically soak some small arms plasma. But the cannons that the vehicles packed weren't going to even be challenged by their armor.

The two squads moved to haul makeshift cover for their position. Cars, newspaper dispensers, and in several cases they were actually using their knives to free telephone booths from their wall sockets and dragging those over. It was mostly a matter of space when dealing with plasma. Plasma tended to burn through things, but after hitting the first object, tended to become rather unstable. Keeping a few inches of space between the layers of makeshift cover ensured that it wouldn't burn completely through.

"We've got incoming!" Sands shouted. "Movers and foot! You get eyes on the vehicles, give a shout! Spanky!"

"Up!" Specialist Anthony Ruiz shouted back, heaving his M41 SSM up and resting the foregrip on the hood of the car he was taking cover behind. He glanced behind him to make sure no idiot was behind the SSM tubes. "Clear!"

"You get the shout, take the motherfucking mover!" Sands called. "I do _not_ want them in play!"

"Copy that," Ruiz shouted as he then stepped back to unclip his M6J for the fight. One of the more technically-proficient soldiers, he'd worked out a way to wedge a paperclip into his carbine to allow automatic fire. Highly unorthodox and more than a little illegal, but Sands liked having that extra firepower available.

Sands checked to see that both PFC Murphy Oates and Private William "Wolfman" Hertz had been set up as well. The barrel of their GPMG poking out of the shattered storefront answered that question. Oates tended to pop combat stims like candy, likely thanks to an old pick-up stick habit he'd kicked a year back. But he was a rock-steady support gunner. And they needed men like him on the front lines. Billy Hertz was the same, demoted twice in a week thanks to insubordination back during the Ballast campaign. But his rounds flew as true as those of a sniper.

With the Covenant vehicles drawing closer, they got a clearer snapshot of what they were dealing with. They'd be rounding a corner right about now, chasing the half-platoon of militia. Sands raised and readied his MA37 and prepared to meet them. Deep breaths kept his nerves steady and the interface crosshairs unmoving. The stock of the assault rifle was braced securely against his shoulder plate. He was ready.

* * *

**UNSC Five Rounds Rapid, Old Mombasa Airspace**

**0957 Military Standard Time**

"All ODST units are away," Chester reported. "All Marine and Army units are away. Our bays are clear, ma'am. Two minutes to point of no return."

_Marathon_-class cruisers were not _supposed_ to perform atmospheric operations. But the Covenant weren't _supposed_ to find Earth either. The entire shipframe was shaking and creaking even though only a few dozen meters of the _Five Rounds Rapid_ had breached the atmosphere, but Admiral Chavez knew it was precisely because of that that they were experiencing the turbulence. Any more of this, and even the most over-engineered _Halycon_ would be coming to pieces.

"Okay, take us back up," Chavez said. "Status of the other ships?"

"The _Unyielding_ is reporting massive structural compromise across the board," Winters reported. "Fuller says they'll have to see about making a landing. _Zero-Sum Gain_ and _Cherbourg_ are reporting similar problems. All landers have been launched."

"Ma'am, getting some problems with the stick," Fries said from his station. "We're going to be cutting it real close."

"Keep working on it," Chavez said before checking her readings.

They had a minute or two before the _Five Rounds Rapid_ dipped too low into the atmosphere to safely recover to orbit. The engineers had promised that the _Marathon_ cruiser could take the stresses, but that had been with an intact hull. Her displays showed red and black spots all over the armor, points where plasma and other damage had either compromised or outright removed the hull.

_Thunk_.

The sound was too deep to be an external impact, and the shaking increased.

Chavez glanced at the new flashing alert. "That didn't sound healthy."

* * *

**Old Mombasa, Earth**

**1002 Military Standard Time**

"Keep moving! 'Round the bend!"

Another Banshee whistled overhead, its plasma cannons firing. Corporal Piter Torino gasped for breath as he ran. He could hear the whine of the Covenant tanks behind him. The militia battalion had been utterly demolished. A company-sized element of Covenant had landed right in the middle their staging area and tore them to shreds. Captain Dennis Beukelaer had been systematically dismembered by one of the tall sword-wielding white-clad "Elites" even as his command was set upon by dozens of the smaller "Grunts." Faced with no other choice, the surviving members of the battalion had scattered.

Following Sergeant Ezekiel Wood, the remnants of the Romeo -Four platoon was desperately trying to reach friendly lines. Torino was a Mombasa native like the rest of the battalion, but that lent no advantages to navigating the maze that was Old Mombasa.

They had been running for five minutes now. Those who fell behind were swiftly killed, but not before going out in a blaze of glory to buy the others more time. If he lived through the day, Torino promised himself that he would remember all of them who had sacrificed themselves. He rounded the corner to finally see his salvation. A platoon of Army infantry, all with their weapons pointed his way. At least it seemed that way. He knew somewhere in his adrenaline-soaked mind that they'd be pointed at the Covenant real soon.

"Come on, move it!" Sergeant Milan Douglass shouted from her position at the corner, guiding wayward militiamen while laying fire on the Covenant behind them. "Positions on the sides of the street! Give the Army a clear lane! Go, go, go!"

Torino skidded on a piece of rubble blasted from the side of one of the buildings but quickly righted himself. Breath coming in ragged bursts, he dove over the hood of a car and readied his MA3. The last of Romeo-Four rounded the block, picking up defensive positions where they could. Behind cars, trash cans, and even piles of rubbish, MA3 barrels emerged. This was where they'd be making their stand.

The sound of those horrible Covenant antigravity units reached his ears again. Those tanks of theirs would be following shortly. Gripping his rifle tighter, Torino licked his cracked and bleeding lips. He wished they'd just get on with it. He'd been chased. Now his pursuers would be getting a taste of their own bitter medicine. Come and get some!

And finally they came. He saw the hulking iridescent purple tank swing around the corner into view, its smaller cannons already firing. Blinding blurs of plasma streaked over his head, shortly joined by the crackling blue of the tank's main gun. Torino turned his head to track the fall of the ball of plasma. It fell short of the Army position, but just barely.

The Army's side of the street practically exploded even as the plasma mortar's "projectile" sank into the pavement, detonating a water main as it melted itself into extinguishment. It didn't matter to the infantrymen that there was a sudden blast of steam that obscured their vision. They had pre-sighted their weapons and were finally let off the chain.

Torino heard the hiss of bullets passing just by his makeshift defensive position, the rounds expending themselves against the hide of the metal beast. Not a scratch. They'd need-

Piter Torino's decapitated corpse tumbled to the ground, the victim of a luckily-placed plasma bolt that had just skimmed the hood of the car. His fatigues had caught fire even as his skull detonated from the sudden thermal expansion of his boiled brain matter. The actual plasma burned away what was left of his head, leaving a smoldering neck with flash-coagulated blood splattered on the hood along with a dusting of carbonized brain and bone.

* * *

**New Mombasa Airspace, Earth**

**1007 Military Standard Time**

There were times when Hatam 'Sraomee desperately wanted his full-face Ranger helmet. Dealing with a file of Jiralhanae was one of those situations. In the confines of the dropship bay, their wet-doarmir smell was overwhelming. It had occurred to him it might have been easier if he'd taken his new repeater and burned away his olfactory pits. But they had a mission. Even if it included the brutes. At least the Prophet had been clear that the shaggy beasts were on there as observers.

"We are not some pod of ill-disciplined Unggoy," he said as he brought up the next hologram of the city below. "We are elites, so act that way when we are on-mission." He highlighted a section of the map and expanded it. "This is our objective. Command believes that we may access this city's dataspine through these portals built into the streets for some sort of subterranean transport."

The compression strip itched, but he ignored it to continue giving the briefing.

"We will be inserted here," he pointed out an intersection. "And then we will continue on foot to link up with two lances of Yanme'e and Kig-yar, _here._ From there we will enter the portal and tear out this putrescent infestation of heretics to gain access to their information so we may better cleanse this world of their taint. Am I understood?"

His Rangers rumbled their assent. 'Sraomee looked at each of them. Some of them still bore fresh wounds from the boarding operation. But they were Rangers, the best at what they did. They would not let him down.

"We will likely be maneuvering in confined spaces, so I was advised that our antigravity units would not be necessary for the operation. You may leave them if you so wish," he said, finally reaching up to adjust the compression strip. "You will have two units to ready yourselves before touchdown. Dismissed."

* * *

**UNSC **_**Konrad Volkov**_**, New Mombasa, Earth**

**1000 Military Standard Time**

Most people saw Wombat-driving as a cake-walk. But then again, most people hadn't been handed the keys to a two-hundred thousand credit piece of advanced reconnaissance and murder-death-kill hardware that was a properly-equipped F99 Unmanned Combat Aerial Vehicle. That and the sounds of the battle away from the _Volkov_ tended to get rather loud despite the fact that the forty UCAV pilots were seating in a sealed and insulated room.

Warrant Officer Anthony Tsetsang gently pushed his joystick forward, the nose-camera of his Wombat blurring as its trajectory was adjusted. There. He was looking right down at the advancing front of the Covenant. Their troop ships were unmistakable with their bulbous lines and the way they seemed to waddle in the air. Not like the UNSC's Pelicans and Falcons.

"Tally, Covenant Papas and Bravos," he said calmly, bringing his weapon systems up. "Estimate approximately four-zero contacts."

"Concur," Warrant Officer Elizabeth Farrell said from a station over. "Do we engage?"

Chief Warrant Officer Boyd Lennix grunted from his own station. "Engage. Weapons free."

"Tally lead Papa. Guns," Warrant Officer Claire Acker said almost immediately following the order. "Splash. Tracking target. Fox One."

From Tsetsang's own screens, he could see the flash of impact against the leading dropship. The alien ship had shrugged off the initial barrage of rounds. The following AIM-601 Stiletto was a bit more noticeable what with the raining debris and the crippled dropship falling from the sky. No time for gawking, though. He was getting messages from the rest of the ship's Wombat drivers indicating engagement. It was time to get to work.

Performing a quick flip over a stream of plasma laid down by one of the ships, he kept the nose of his drone pointed at the shape of another of the dropships. Priority was on those instead of the Banshees. The smaller fliers packed more firepower, but there were only one critter in each of them. On the other hand the dropships carried a whole load of them. So, they needed to go.

"Tally Papa at one o'clock, Angels four. Tracking target. Fox One," he all but whispered, relying on his COM to transmit the information.

The Wombats they were flying had been kitted out with air-superiority strike packages. Which meant that while they were shit when it came close air support, they could knock down anything in the Covenant aerial arsenal short of capital ships. But they could certainly do a bit of damage to those as well.

Multitasking, he kept the dropship painted for his Stiletto launch while simultaneously seeking out new targets. And there was no lack of that.

His Stiletto slammed into the dropship like an arrow through candy glass. The nosecone camera recorded the missile's last moments as it plowed into the heart of the alien ship. And then the warhead detonated. Relatively light for an anti-air missile, the Stiletto didn't pack as much of a punch as the heavier weapons, but placement mattered as much if not more than raw damage. The dropship was shattered by the explosion, dropping its living cargo into drink hundreds of meters below.

"Splash," Tsetsang reported. "Tally, Bravo on nine o'clock, Angels four. Guns."

His Wombat's underslung GAU-81A had a little play in what direction it was pointed, allowing him to drop the reticule over the Banshee. The computer quickly calculated the lead and projected that on his screen. All he had to do now was lay the reticule over the circle, and pull the trigger…

The GAU-81A discharged with a staccato crackle. Faster than the eye could follow, the tungsten-core magnetically-accelerated rounds had punched holes straight through the flier. He watched the Banshee rapidly lose altitude and plunge into the water of the Mombasa quays before acquiring a new target.

The rest of the flight fired as well, missiles and magnetically-accelerated penetrators shooting across the gap between then, tearing into the leading dropships and their escorts. A dozen of them had found watery graves by the time the other aliens had a chance to react and mount something akin to an offense. But what an offensive it was, two dozen Banshees swarming ahead to meet the four UCAVs.

"Stagger," Lennix ordered, his own Wombat pushing ahead, GAU-81 flashing as he pumped bursts into the Covenant fliers. "What state?"

"Copy," Tsetsang said, echoing the words of the rest of the flight. "Active four, Radar five, Heat four," he reported. He was going to be running low on Stilettos.

"Radar, Heat, Active," Lennix stated, launching two of his AIM-4 Hammers. They were active radar-guided and packed twelve fragmenting submunitions. A sure way to ruin any pilot's day. "Guns last."

Affirmatives were echoed, and then they slammed into the Covenant line. Missiles were launched, and the battle was joined. Four against dozens. Tsetsang's lips involuntarily curled up into a smile. He liked those odds.

* * *

UNSC Logistical Operations Technical Archives: F99 "Wombat" Unmanned Combat Aerial Vehicle

Crew: Unmanned

Length: 11.34 meters

Width: 8.57 meters

Mass: 16 metric tons

Depth: 3.32 meters

Maximum Acceleration: 52 kilometers per hour

Armament: Modular

Brief: An old standby of the UNSC Air Force and Navy, the F99 UCAV has proven itself to be a durable and distinctive subsonic interceptor. Owing to its overall sturdiness and ability to take damage, F99 pilots have taken to calling them "Wombats" after the native marsupial of Australia where the first F99s were tested. F99s are seen as particularly valuable to officers as reconnaissance assets thanks to top of the line and highly durable surveillance hardware capable of surviving a crash. However, the F99 is not limited to that, thanks to internal ordnance bays capable of accepting twelve tons of ordnance as well as the GAU-81A, a developmental offshoot of the M68 in use with the Army and Marine Corps.

* * *

Author's Rant: Well, finally updated it. I had posted something akin to this two months ago, but I took it down immediately after finding way too many errors and issues with it. Crits and commentary's always welcome.


	7. Chapter VI

"In war there is no substitute for victory."

-General Douglas MacArthur, speech to Congress, 1951

* * *

**COBB Manufacturing Complex 511, Old Mombasa, Earth**

**0947 Military Standard Time**

There was no mistaking the crackle of MA3 assault rifles against the hissing discharge of plasma. The fighting was getting closer by the minute. But still the technicians continued to work methodically. What they were working on needed patience and a steady hand contrary to popular belief about field-modifications and jury-rigging. Especially with stripped governors. The operating system needed to be adjusted for the new "settings" and the tanks still needed to be refilled.

A Banshee could be heard flying low overhead with its plasma cannons firing. The sounds of fighting grew ever closer. But they had only one shot at this, and it needed to be perfect. The technicians continued their work...

* * *

**Old Mombasa Airspace, Earth**

**0959 Military Standard Time**

"Okay, here's the situation!" Sergeant Rob Swagger shouted over the whine of the D77-TC Pelican's thrusters that penetrated even the squad's sealed helmets. "We've been receiving reports of Covenant landings throughout New Mombasa! You know what that means, boys and girls! We get to kill us some aliens!"

"Oorah!" the squad bellowed as one, fifteen voices together.

"We hit the ground running," Swagger said, relying now more on his helmet's COM. "Secure an LZ for everyone else. We've got Army armor backing us up, air, and full loads of ammo! I want to see everything that ain't human _dead_! You get me?"

"Aye, Sergeant!" they bellowed again, one or two of them banging the stocks of their MA5Cs on the deck. All fresh blood. He didn't know a single one of them two days before when he'd been reassigned.

Holding onto the cargo netting attached to the ceiling, Swagger walked forward toward the already-open ramp. They were nearly at the drop zone. There was no tolerance for error with this. He could see the beginnings of Mombasa passing underneath them. Mostly industrial concerns, leftovers from possibly centuries before. They were old and worn, but unscarred by the fighting occurring deeper in the city.

A shadow passed over the formation of Pelicans. It was a Covenant frigate. A stab of fear seized Swagger's heart before he noticed the giant burning rents in its body. There were a dozen UNSC fastmovers circling it and picking open more of the purplish-red skin with each pass. They were herding it out toward the countryside or whatever passed for it around Mombasa so presumably when it was finally disabled it wouldn't hit the city.

The Pelicans made a turn westward, allowing him a view of the waterfront. It was a view he regretted immediately. There were hundreds of the Covenant's dropships over the water. Like blue-purple bugs... His skin prickled at the thought of the aliens invading this planet. His planet. There weren't many places left for mankind now. Ever since the fall of Reach, things had only accelerated.

"We're getting some weird power readings here," their pilot drawled.

That was putting it lightly. Rob Swagger found himself a second later about to test how impact-resistant his helmet's visor was against the floor of the Pelican as it jerked to one side and then the other before going into freefall.

* * *

**UNSC **_**Konrad Volkov**_**, New Mombasa, Earth**

**1002 Military Standard Time**

Cool and detached, Warrant Officer Anthony Tsetsang laid his crosshairs over the blurring shape of a Covenant Phantom dropship. Those bastards could move when they wanted to. Arcane symbols flashed across his display, the flight AI providing cues for how to adjust his point of aim for movement compensation.

A tap of the trigger shredded the aft fuselage of the dropship, the tungsten-core slugs of the GAU-81 tearing through the purple-blue metal. The dropship wobbled and listed to a side as the pilot tried to compensate. In the days of the First World War, there was such a thing as chivalry between pilots. But this wasn't that time. Tsetsang walked the reticule up and tapped the trigger again. This time his shot gutted the energy cells that post-battle dissections of Phantoms had located. It erupted into an expanding cloud of metal particulate and plasma as Tsetsang's Wombat flew overhead.

"Mission retasking, Volkov Flight. Divert to Tudor for escort. Cleared hot on all bogeys. Keep those bogeys off the transports," CWO Boyd Lennix said as he dropped his Wombat under a Banshee after pumping its nose full of tungsten. "Each of them is at the limit with residents. One of them goes, you just got an entire city block killed."

"Way to be inspiring," Tsetsang muttered under his breath as he adjusting the heading of his Wombat.

They had made quick work of the initial wave of landing craft. The few that made it through were likely going to be easily dismantled by ground forces. Or at least that was the hope. Either way, the UCAV pilots had more pressing concerns now.

Volkov Flight passed over the southern tip of Mombasa Island as they streaked towards their next objective. Even from this high up and without using the optics suite of the drone, it was obvious the city was taking one hell of a pounding. There were pillars of smoke and flames where buildings used to be, and possibly a dozen light capships that the computers identified as corvettes. In either case they looked like bruise-purple leeches floating over the city. Flashes of plasma would regularly streak out from the belly of the ships to rain further ruin on the city below.

"Sir, there're an awful lot of those corvettes over there," Warrant Officer Marc Ceccoli said. "Was that sector evacuated?"

"Yes. Confirmed evacuated by the NMPD," Lennix said after a second. "Nothing down there but militia and police."

"Jesus," Tsetsang said, barely able to comprehend the sight. He desperately hoped the area had been evacuated completely. Anyone left down there would've been in a whole new world of hurt. "What about the Marines? The Army?"

"They're in the process of inserting," Lennix said, his tone final.

The flight remained unharassed by the Covenant, flying high above the frigates and apparently unseen by the assault carrier parked over the nature preserve. Wombats were big, but not that big. And the Covenant likely had their hands full with the bigger manned fighters and dropships scrambling to meet them.

By some miracle the New Mombasa Orbital Elevator remained untouched. Literally touching the sky, the Mombasa Tether was a point of pride with the locals from what literature Tsetsang had read from before the war. Cheaper than using old-fashioned chem rockets to reach space, the orbital elevator had catapulted the already-busy port city into the big time when it was first built. It didn't look like much now. Just a stack of support rings partially obscured in the smoke of burning buildings what completely masked the tether itself.

Looking down, Tsetsang could see the flotilla of ferry ships inching across the bay to the relative safety of Old Mombasa. Ordinarily they were much faster than this. But each ship was literally packed to the limit with evacuees and their militia escorts. They rode low in the water, just barely able to manage the slow crawl like an oozing oil slick. But the sparks streaming from the ships was a good deal faster. Tracers from the militia onboard each of the vessels, their weapons firing as one, all converging on one Banshee or another.

Panning his camera starboard, he spotted Banshees buzzing the ships. Thin slivers of light flashed as they strafed the convoy with their plasma cannons.

"Tally, Covenant Bravos at angels two, two o'clock," Lennix said. "Thirty-six contacts."

"Confirmed," Tsetsang said. "Six Bravos engaged with friendlies. Engaging."

The Wombat's telemetry was combined with the rapidly-growing networked data from other units in the vicinity and quickly translated by the _Konrad Volkov_'s computers into viable targeting data. Shape recognition software highlighted the uniquely bulbous shapes of the Covenant fightercraft, tagging them with a unique alphanumeric code and a diamond for rapid target acquisition. From there it was a simple task of lining up the shot or painting the target.

Warrant Officer Claire Acker got the first kill, a Stiletto turning her targeted Banshee into so much fire and shrapnel. She was the most aggressive of the pilots, a Skyhawk jock before a bad punch-out thanks to Innie triple-A had torn her right leg off mid-thigh. That had mutated her hair-trigger temper into a mean streak as wide as the _Volkov_ was long. It made her almost unbearable to get along with outside of the control room, but it suited the remote nature of the Wombat fliers.

There was another perk to not sitting in a "proper" cockpit. No meat in the vehicle meant it could do some _really_ fancy tricks.

Pushing his Wombat into a steep and fast dive, he picked his target. No directly-piloted unit could have pulled off what he was going to do without blacking out. Here he was limited only by how quickly his mind could process what he was seeing. And UCAV drivers were chosen specifically for that.

"Tally Bravo Alpha-Three," he said. "Tracking target. Fox One."

The Stiletto dropped out of his port munitions bay, and for a surreal moment he saw it pass by him as his UCAV overtook it. But then the motor ignited and the missile shot forward to hit the Banshee. Around him, the others of his flight had opened up with what remained of their air-to-air stocks. The alien fliers were shredded quickly and efficiently.

"Splash." A blinking light caught his attention. "Bent, bent, bent," he said quickly. "Port munitions bay is bent."

Something had tagged his Wombat and the port munitions bay had been jammed half-open. Trying to use it would likely blow the UCAV to pieces.

"Confirmed bent," Warrant Officer Elizabeth Farrell said as she flipped her UCAV around Tsetsang's for a visual check. "Looks like FOD and plasma."

_God fucking damn it_. There were procedures that needed to be followed to clear the Wombat for flight. And those procedures would take him off the battlefield, where he could be making a difference instead of coming back to the _Volkov_ and doing nothing.

"Roger bent," Lennix said. "Tsetsang, separate and RTB. Get it cleared."

"Negative, sir," Tsetsang snapped. "Starboard bay is still operational. I'm still in the fight."

"Tsetsang, _return to base_," Lennix said again. "That's an order. You're no good to us at half efficiency."

"RTB, roger," Tsetsang said after a moment, his teeth grinding together.

Reluctantly he adjusting his heading and prepared his mental checklist for landing on the _Volkov_.

* * *

**Tudor River, Mombasa, Earth**

**1003 Military Standard Time**

_Three o'clock_. "Fliers, three o'clock high!"

Private Todd Wainwright called it almost as quickly as his eyes registered the image. Covenant Banshees incoming. Painfully he raised his MA3 with an arm and a half before cutting loose. Technically his left arm was mostly intact from about mid-bicep down, but it was the stuff above it that was posing a problem. The rubberized stock of the assault rifle hammered against the exposed muscle and nerves, thankfully partially destroyed by the plasma burst. It was now only an excruciating pain as he tried to walk his fire into the oncoming aircraft.

"Holy shit, there's gotta be dozens of them!" someone to his right shouted.

Above him, he could hear the rhythmic thumping of the hastily-mounted twenty-millimeter chain gun on the upper deck of the ferry. Private Mel Takeshi had found his niche, having coerced the lieutenant in charge of the ferry's platoon into letting him man the anti-aircraft gun. Missing his left arm, he couldn't hold any but the lightest and most ineffective weapons. And the twenty-mill didn't need two hands to operate...

Wainwright could feel the heat off the handguard of his rifle as he dropped his latest expended magazine. "Loading!" he shouted, voice hoarse.

Jamming a fresh magazine into the weapon, he resumed firing after somehow managing to chamber a round. He joined in with the rest of the mixed squad, focusing his fire on one of the Banshees in particular. Their rounds sparked and skipped off of the bulbous nose of the flier as its plasma cannons raked the water around the ferries. But eventually someone's rounds found the sweet spot in the alien flier's armor plates, the hardened steel-core slugs burrowing deep into what must have been the avionics package of the vehicle. That didn't matter. What mattered was that the Banshee was trying to correct its downward spiral.

Another Banshee tried to make a pass at them only to be shattered by a missile. A second later an UNSC Air Force F99 UCAV streaked past, waggling its wings for a moment. Wainwright let out a ragged cheer like the others on the deck before returning to trying to take down the Banshees. It was good to see the Air Force on the job. CAS was always welcome.

"Watch your fires!" someone shouted over the COM. "Keep it clear of the UCAVs! Give them space!"

Wainwright reloaded his rifle after he felt the distinctive bump of the bolt slamming against a dry chamber. His adrenaline-numb hands fumbled and dropped the magazine onto the deck. Ducking down to pick it up from the gleaming casing-covered deck, he felt a flash of searing heat followed by screaming. His head jerked to the right, following the noise even as he rammed the magazine home. What he saw stopped him cold.

Another militia man had been hit. The plasma bolt had caught him, or possibly her near the navel. Infantry plasma was bad enough with its tendency of dismemberment and maiming. Plasma from a Banshee was a different story. He was vaguely aware of what must have been their standard-issue boots half-fused to the deck. Everything from roughly mid-calf and up to the upper ribcage had been scattered against the bulkhead, still cooking from the heat. A head, horribly burnt and cracked from the sudden heat lolled on the deck plating, its helmet still attached.

"Keep shooting!" a sergeant shouted, kicking Wainwright in his side as he walked over to take the position of the dead militia trooper. "Get that weapon in the fight!"

Swallowing bile, Wainwright managed a nod. He raised his weapon and sighted down the stripped-down rails. The cheek pad was almost unbearably hot against his face as he squeezed the trigger.

* * *

**UNSC **_**Konrad Volkov**_**, New Mombasa, Earth**

**1005 Military Standard Time**

Every few seconds, the point-defense turrets would fire. The tooth-grinding sound of the rotary guns made it almost impossible to think. But that sound meant that the ship's defenses were still online and active. On the other hand, even the sound-dampening headsets couldn't stop you from noticing what exactly the turrets were shooting at.

Covenant craft circled the _Volkov_ and her sister ships in a stand-off of roughly half a kilometer established by the point-defense units. The fliers who had gotten too close were clawed out of the sky quickly and efficiently by AI-guided Gatling cannons.

"Don't bother keeping it clean!" Technical Sergeant Ralph Hernandez shouted to the deck crew over the roar. "Chop it off and gas it up! The airframe can take it!"

Air Force bossing Navy around. Who'd have thought it? He walked between the crews as they worked on the battle-damaged UCAVs, using their plasma torches to slice off damaged plates of armor from the airframes. The F99s were sturdy buggers, slightly smaller than late twenty-first century aerospace combat craft. He'd seen Innies try to shoot them down with several MANPADS simultaneously only to have the UCAV fly home with half of its armored hide stripped off but still perfectly flight-ready.

The issue here now was getting the birds back into the fight. Full repairs would take hours at least, too much time. The battle scars were cut away and any deeper damage quickly swapped out before the hydrogen tanks were topped off and the munitions bays were restocked. A quick pat on the behind and then the UCAV was sent on its way back into the fight. Ten minutes tops.

One of the newest arrivals was looking to be a problem. The pilot had been pretty careful and it only sported a few scars, nothing that would affect performance. But there was a pretty big one right where it counted. A long ragged scar ran along and through the outer seam of the port munitions bay. Plasma by the looks of it. But there was also a jagged piece of purple metal jammed in with the mess. Covenant alloy. The idiots needed to stop flying their damn planes through debris clouds...

"Okay, you!" he pointed at one of the crew inspecting it. This needed a personal touch, especially since the thing was still partially loaded. "Give me your cutter and get the UXO team ready to receive!"

This was going to be a long day...

* * *

**Old Mombasa, Earth**

**1005 Military Standard Time**

"Gunner! HEAT! Dropship!" Colonel Thomas Hogarth shouted. "Eleven o'clock!"

"Identified!" Sergeant John Roland reported.

"Fire!" Hogarth roared. "Burn their mongrel hides!"

"On the way!" Roland shouted even as the massive bulk of God Hand slammed backwards from the recoil.

Technically colonels weren't supposed to be leading from the front. Technically. Then again, the doctrine had been written before the Covenant had decided to punch gaping holes in the UNSC battle line. How did they expect him to hold a line with only M808As?

Admittedly God Hand did have a nasty set of fangs. The shattered dropship losing altitude was testament to that. The HEAT shell wasn't intended for engaging aerial targets, but nobody was in the mood to argue with results. Having a 120mm main gun capable of spewing a round every ten seconds did that. And the sound insulation in the compartment was _great_. Hogarth could really only feel a vague vibration in his back teeth every time the main gun fired. But then there was the issue of the engines which were _much_ closer and felt a need to disregard the insulation.

"Cease fire!" he shouted. "Target destroyed! Driver, move out!"

Accompanied by a mechanized infantry platoon, God Hand rolled down the street. The armored troop transports hung back slightly, letting God Hand and Keymaker, another of the M808A Deathstalkers, take the lead. Their armor was like paper compared to the ancient MBTs and were not intended for open engagement. But again, whatever they were _intended_ for went out the window in combat. Especially when some enterprising technicians had mounted M247s on the roofs of the Warthogs.

Much of Old Mombasa appeared to have self-evacuated the moment the Covenant had shown up. There were sporadic thermal and chip contacts that registered as humans, but there was no time to make sure they were properly evacuated. They had a mission, a simple but vital one: punch through the Covenant forces that were landing to link up with other arriving ground forces.

"Defiance Actual, Jackboot Actual," Captain Renaldo Eichmann reported over the COM. "Jackboot forces are near the water but we're getting a little ragged here." In the background, Hogarth could make out the hissing of a breached cockpit overpressurization seal. "Permission to hold."

Hogarth examined the map. Jackboot Company was far ahead of schedule and the Katrina's network reported that they were taking casualties beyond the standard projected rate. If they continued any further, Jackboot would likely turn into a combat-ineffective mess of broken metal.

"Jackboot Actual, Defiance Actual," Hogarth said as he started inputting new orders. "Dig in. I'm sending elements of Firebottle and Wombats to assist."

"Contact front!" Roland suddenly called out. "Sir, Ghosts and Wraiths! There's got to be dozens of them!"

"Getting a little hairy over here, Jackboot," Hogarth said. "Defiance Actual out." He glanced first at the view through the Deathstalker's viewport. Then at the screens. He smiled. "Confirmed, there are in fact dozens of them. Gunner, load HEAT. Await target designation."

* * *

**HIGHCOM Facility Bravo-6, Sydney, Earth**

**0958 Military Standard Time**

The air stank of sweat and ozone as the officers in the overcrowded room attempted to hold back an alien invasion of the cradle of humanity. Nestled in the corner of it all was the special forces area of the operations center. With the special forces groups largely self-regulating, the officers were more concerned with handling the brushfires. Or in this case, managing a holding action.

"I repeat, you are to hold them, Colonel," Admiral Yusef Mo'Alim said, the scarred metal of his prosthetic hands creaking as he clenched them. "Earth's being overrun with what already made it through. "

"Yes, Admiral," the reply came. "We're drawing the line in the sand here. No Covenant are getting off this rock."

"See that they don't. HIGHCOM out."

_And may Zeus save us all_, Mo'Alim thought as the connection terminated. He closed his eyes. Twenty men and women to stop an invasion fleet. Twenty souls to buy them time. If they somehow survived this, he wasn't sure how he could live with himself.

* * *

**Mare Erythraeum, Mars**

**0959 Military Standard Time**

A nearby explosion punctuated the end of the transmission. Closing the clamshell of the comms unit, the Colonel looked around at the operators surrounding him. His Oddballs.

"You heard Mo'Alim. We stop the Covenant here and we keep them from reaching Earth. We keep them from reaching Earth, that means there's some fewer Covenant to kill your brothers and sisters. Questions?"

The looked back him impassively, their faces and visored helmets smeared with red mud from the hour-long crawl into position. They knew what they were getting into. So did he.

"Okay," Colonel James Ackerson said, jerking the charging handle of his rifle back to chamber a round. "Have a good 'un."

Screened by two snipers, the others began the crawl toward the perimeter of the gravity lifts. They would tie up the Covenant fleet making a stop-over on Mars. It was a suicide mission, but which ones weren't nowadays?

* * *

**Old Mombasa, Earth**

**1003 Military Standard Time**

"Bust 'em!"

Two Covenant Type-26s, "Wraiths," had been cruising down the avenue, dropping rounds from their plasma mortars like it was going out of style. Cars and buildings alike had been melted, torn apart, and ignited by the plasma. But the moment the order came, they immediately stopped. Mostly because each of the hovering tanks had eaten four 102mm rockets.

Without this armored support, the Jackals and Grunts moving up in front of them were suddenly without any cover. Which meant that the machine gunners had a good target-rich environment to choose victims from. Even before the second Wraith had collapsed to the ground in pieces, tracers tore up the street. The combined fire of the Rangers and local militia lit up the canyon-like avenue of approach.

The world became like a desaturated photograph of gray smoke, red tracers, and muzzle flash. Dozens of the aliens were cut apart in the crossfire, their purple and blue ichor forming a macabre mist in the air. The men worked over the kill zone quickly, zigzagging their fire to cover the most ground. The Jackals' shield units flared under the impacts, rapidly losing strength before completely collapsing and leaving their wielders vulnerable to the fire assuming they had not already been hit and killed from another angle.

"Cease fire! Cease fire!"

Staff Sergeant Nathan Sands heard the order and immediately lowered his MA37. He turned to his squad and waved his hand. "Cease fire! Cease fire! Stop shooting!"

The firing tapered off as the platoon gradually stopped firing. It might have happened sooner, but they still nursed a grudge from the Ballast campaign. The only good Covvie was a dead Covvie. In the sudden silence, they could hear the sounds of the fight around them. Other units fighting and possibly dying. Sands reloaded his rifle, carefully tucking his half-expended magazine back into rotation in his ammunition pouches.

Satellite imagery said there were no further forces for a few blocks. Several of the militia troopers were being helped to their feet and given spare ammunition. The poor bastards had been stuck deep in Old Mombasa and cut off for God knows how long. But there was no time to unwind. There was a war to fight. No KIA or WIA tags on his visor. Good. They'd need everyone for this.

"Platoon, let's move it out!" Meehan shouted. "We have forces to link up with!"

"Squad, on me," Sands called, copied after a moment by Staff Sergeant Moe Briggs.

This was going to be a long day...

* * *

**Old Mombasa, Earth**

**1007 Military Standard Time**

Firebottle Company was a good representative of doctrine during the days of the Insurrection. While tanks and overwhelming firepower were nice to have, some things needed a defter touch. That was where the mechanized infantry units of the UNSCDF came into play. They had been tasked to act as dachshunds to the Insurrection's badgers. Like the short-legged hunting dogs, the mechanized infantry were intended to plunge into the warrens of the Insurrectionists and hunt them down.

With the coming of the Covenant, they simultaneously evolved and devolved. Their highly mobile M1114 Cougar IFVs became the centerpiece of combined arms doctrine against the alien threat. Each mechanized infantry squad was trained to fight alongside their rides, their assault rifles complementing the twinned chainguns of the Cougars. They could worm themselves into almost any situation and provide much-needed fire for extraction.

And there they were. The gravel-sized debris cracked and popped underneath the Cougars' tires as they rolled up the avenue. Their autocannons swiveled on their turrets, covering likely avenues of approach. Seated inside each of the lozenge-shaped armored vehicles were infantry fireteams making last minute checks before the ramps dropped.

PFC Albert Leeds checked the tray of his M247 GPMG, blinking away the prickly sweat that beaded around his eyes in the semi-darkness of the troop bay. It was clean, or at least clean enough. He set the belt and snapped the tray lid shut. A pull of the charging handle chambered the first round. Settling a hand onto the slightly warm metal, he looked around the cramped squad bay.

Staff Sergeant Eldridge was busy consulting his TACPAD and taking occasional peeks out through the troop bay's periscope having made the choice to travel with his Team Two. Sergeant Peter Troy, Team Two's leader was trying to keep some of their racked-up ammunition from tearing clean through the nets and falling on him. PFC Owen Gray and Specialist Rosanna Hughes were in their own little worlds while tending to their weapons.

Nobody wanted to say anything, as if talking about the Covenant were going to make their situation that much more real. Routinely the roof-mounted autocannons would fire, filling the compartment with smoke and a dull rapid thumping as they unloaded on an unseen target. Leeds's visor feeds kept him relatively apprised of their status and general location in the city. They were supposed to be linking up with Jackboot, one of the relatively lighter armor battalions that made up Defiance. Jackboot drove the bulk of the regiment's armored support units, mobile artillery and armored transports. They weren't intended for city combat, but could hold out for a while at least.

"Three minutes out," Eldridge said quietly. "Everyone set?"

"Yes, Sarge," Leeds said, echoing the others.

He didn't feel like it though. It was as if someone had shoved a mixer into his gut and turned it on. But the fear was good. It helped him to focus. He patted down his armored vest to make sure everything was in place, and again just to make absolutely sure. It was a habit that had served him well in the past. The moment the ramp dropped, it was show time and there would be no time or place to make sure he had everything he needed.

Leeds readied his GPMG and turned to stare at the ramp, just waiting for it to drop.

* * *

**Kilindini, New Mombasa, Earth**

**1010 Military Standard Time**

The streets were utterly empty around the landing zone, the locals having likely evacuated a while ago. A momentary blur was picked up on the local security cameras, before the ubiquitous cameras were suddenly cut off. Passing the still-burning remains of the devices, the flowing forms of a pair of Phantom dropships materialized seemingly from thin air.

Both dropships slowed and the side hatches opened. An even dozen half-seen shapes dropped even as the dropships descended. They landed without a sound, spreading out to secure the landing site.

Disengaging his camouflage module, Commander Hatam 'Sraomee glanced around. The active camouflage was a nice addition to his borrowed armor, enveloping him in a semi-permeable light-bending, sound-dampening, emissions-absorbing shield. It made the user invisible to anything quicker than a preliminary inspection but it wasn't without its flaws. Keeping it activated was first and foremost a tremendous drain on his armor's power systems. It also more importantly dulled his senses. The shield worked both ways. Those from the outside could only make out the vague and hazy shape and rarely heard the user. From within the field, he could only perceive slightly less than half of the light passing through the field. Situational awareness was key to elites such as the Rangers. And it let his Rangers form on his position without needing to rely on their shield-compromised armor sensors.

The Rangers who had elected to leave their antigravity packs behind quickly piled out of the dropships which had their drop systems removed in favor of their stealth systems. With a hand signal from 'Sraomee once the whole team was disembarked, the pilots lifted off again, leaving them standing in the middle of the intersection.

"Spread out, tactical column," he said, flicking his head around. "You, Jiralhanae, you stay close. Shrouds up."

Their observers rumbled their assent as the unit reformed itself and then promptly vanished. Rangers had been given training in almost any and every discipline of combat but were technically intended for space operations. Their technical classification didn't stop them from forming a book-perfect staggered column to advance down the street.

Keeping his repeater up and braced against a shoulder, 'Sraomee stayed near the front of the column, scanning for street-level threats. If the brute who was following him knew where he had obtained the weapon from, he didn't give any indication. While the plasma rifles that a number of the Rangers carried were deadly accurate, the repeater was a point element's weapon. Nothing short of explosives could beat the spread from the weapon.

There were human vehicles littering the area. Tiny things that might have fit maybe one or two of the creatures. Horribly inefficient. But they still needed to be checked in case some entrepreneuring heretic had rigged them up with explosives. The Rangers flowed forward, the air rippling with their passing. Marksmen maintained a height advantage with their antigravity packs to get a good angle on possible targets. But even keenly-trained Sangheili eyes could miss things from up in the air. Which was why the rest were much closer to the ground.

During the overflight, much of the city seemed to be evacuated or in the process of evacuation. The region they had been inserted into was supposed to be clear. No humans had been spotted thus far, but they did not become Rangers by taking chances with these things.

Several eyeblinks and flicks of the eyes brought fresh data onto 'Sraomee's helmet displays. He had taken the time to adjust the configuration and settings of the new armor, but the armor he wore was intended for special operations use and were built to a different spec than he was used to. He still had yet to grow accustomed to the greater flow of information across his eyes. Location, temperature, ambient sound, irregular sound contacts, irregular temperature contacts, irregular shapes and patterns, and the list went on. 'Sraomee estimated that someone trained to use the armor to its fullest would likely be able to pinpoint a target before the target itself knew it was going to be there. But he wasn't a "trained" user, so he worked with what he was familiar with.

"Contact forward," one of the Rangers up ahead reported. His voice was unfamiliar, a replacement. "Hold, not a contact. Rodent."

"Must be a big one rodent," Kaha 'Moramee remarked sarcastically. "Commander, should we address it? It could be a threat."

"Hold fire," 'Sraomee said, trying to suppress a smirk. "Continue moving."

* * *

**Nyali Road, Old Mombasa, Earth**

**1008 Military Standard Time**

"Get up, Private! Get into the fight, dammit!"

Sucking in a breath of sooty air, PFC Leeds coughed uncontrollably as hands pulled at him. Shaking his head to clear it, he looked around. The troop bay had been blasted open with plasma fire, leaving two choices for exit: the dropped ramp, and a man-sized hole near the fire control station of the Cougar. That hole had also been where Staff Sergeant Eldridge had been seated...

Looking up, he saw Specialist Hughes's helmeted head as she hauled him to his feet. The last thing he remembered was it being a minute from ramp drop. There had been reports on the COM of Covenant contacts nearby. Then heat and light. Balling a hand into a fist, he punched himself in the jaw hard. The pain and coppery taste of blood brought his reality into focus quickly.

Leeds picked up his GPMG and staggered out of the ramp by pure reflex as he tried to will his legs into working correctly. The overpressure wave of a nearby detonation cleared away the smoke and dust around him for a moment to make a visual confirmation of what he feared.

The platoon's column was snarled up around several burning Cougars much like the one he had emerged from. They had been caught in a nasty ambush, plasma pouring down from the rooftops of the cookie-cutter apartment complexes they had been passing through. There were these weird four-legged machines in addition to the alien infantry. Or at least they looked like machines. You never knew with the Covenant. A faint memory of a briefing named them 'Locusts.'

Whatever they were called, those things would fire intermittently. Almost faster than the eye could track a purple-white beam would flash across the street. It would cut a molten trough and leave little behind if it struck an infantryman. Compared to that, the plasma coming from the aliens' small arms seemed like chump change. But they were jammed up on a ground-level highway, which meant there was plenty of real estate but no cover. But still the mechanized infantry of Firebottle Company returned fire as best they could.

"Leeds, get your ass over here!" Sergeant Talbot Moore from Third Squad's Team One barked. "Over here, suppress left!"

He sprinted over to Moore's position as quickly as his legs could carry him. Leeds could hear and feel the plasma passing just past his head. The hissing and sizzling of the bolts was even louder than the fire the men were trying to lay down. Someone fired an M41, the rocket's HEAT warhead detonating against the momentarily-visible shields of one of the four-legged things. At least the shrapnel put out tore apart the Covenant infantry so unwisely clustered around it. But that seemed to piss off the aliens even more, their rate of fire sharply increasing.

Dropping to a knee once he was behind another of the Cougars, he picked out the rooftop with the highest concentration of aliens. Bracing, he pulled the trigger. The M247 shook as he loosed a long burst at them. Too low, the rounds only chipping away at the brick of the ledge. He raised his point of aim and fired again. Better. He could see the little aliens thrash amongst themselves as physics helped to put a little steel rain on their heads. Another burst followed that, and another. The man next to him tumbled backwards with most of his collarbone and upper chest reduced to a still-boiling ruin. Fucking plasma.

"Leeds, get the fuck over here!" Moore roared. "We need some fire superiority over here! Hold them off until the Chair Force can get their asses in place for CAS!"

Getting back onto his feet, Leeds cursed as he half-stumbled through the fire. He had a perfectly spot right there. What was the rush? It felt like a century of avoiding the sizzling plasma before he finally made it to the cover the sergeant was standing behind. There were roughly a squad and a half organized around the Cougar, firing as best they could to suppress the Covenant. It wasn't working even with the four GPMGs already set up there.

Irons already dialed in, it was practically a turkey shoot whenever there was a pause in Covenant fire and whenever the four-legs weren't firing. He burned through his first belt quickly as he serviced one roof after another. It was all but impossible to hear orders with all of the machine guns firing at once, leaving Moore running back and forth between the machine gunners and slapping their helmets to redirect their fire. A smack on the left turned the bullet-hoses left, a smack on the right turned them right. Elevation in this case was not a problem.

His shoulder grew numb with the fire smashing the breastplate of his armor against him. Those Air Force birds had better get on station soon...

* * *

**Tudor River, Mombasa, Earth**

**1009 Military Standard Time**

They had lost two of the ferries in the last minute and a half. It was a damn turkey shoot for the Banshees circling them. One moment the two overloaded ships had been slowly clawing their way through the water. The next, they were gutted and molten ruins sinking into the turbulent river. All hands lost. And only God knew how many passengers had gone down with them.

Air Force Wombats had been joined by the Skyhawks of Backsword Flight after a quick resupply run. Even with the extra firepower, it looked like there was no end in sight. Every Banshee the flyboys and the ship-based anti-air managed to put down, another dozen took its place. The Wombats were running out of ammunition as well. With resupply too far away, the UCAV operators had started to turn their drones into semi-reusable missiles. They were far larger than the nimble Covenant fliers and could take a fair number of hits without compromising the airframe.

Subsequently the Banshees found themselves being all but plowed under. Newly emptied UCAVs would fly straight for the thickest of the aliens. Ignoring plasma fire that stripped away their ablative skin, the almost house-sized drones would slam nose-first into the Banshees. The purple alloy crumpled like paper under the weight and force of the Wombats. Banshees fell in the dozens, crushed and shredded, tumbling into the water below.

But it was only a stopgap.

"Give the ground fire clear lanes," Lieutenant Colonel George "Apollo" Pine barked, bracketing the alien fliers with his eye-guided fifty-millimeter cannons while throwing his Skyhawk into a quick Immelmann to avoid the fire from a Banshee. There was no time for the formalities of brevity code with the Backswords now.

"Copy that, Apollo," someone unfamiliar responded, one of the Wombat drivers.

Weaving between the tracer-laden streams of ground fire, the Backswords hunted. Often they did not even need to waste ammunition on the Banshees. Instead they merely herded the fliers into the lanes to be torn apart by the endless stream of fire. The smarter Covenant pilots tried to break clear of the melee, hounded by cannon fire and hastily-reprogrammed Scorpion ATGMs.

But it was just a stopgap. The ferries needed to remain unmolested long enough to enter the perimeter of the anti-aircraft guns that had been set up on the receiving docks. That perimeter had been clearly marked out as well. The Tudor River was the shallower of the two rivers that separated New Mombasa from the mainland, but it was deep enough to allow deep-draft ships to pass through. The fact that a perimeter of shattered Banshees was being visibly built up on the water was a testament to the effectiveness of the fire control systems of the guns as well as the sheer numbers they faced.

As the bulk of the transports passed into the relative safety of the perimeter, Backsword Flight received fresh orders.

"Backsword Flight, divert to Old Mombasa," Apollo said, reading off the new heading. "Nyali Road. We have some more ground pounders to pull out of the fire."

* * *

**Sector 5, New Mombasa, Earth**

**1001 Military Standard Time**

There wasn't a proper definition for what they were. They weren't Army, Marines, Navy, or Air Force. Not even close. They were civilians. There were some from the local militia detachment and the NMPD as well. Perhaps the best term for them was "survivors."

Gripping his scavenged police shotgun tightly, Detective Jorgen Tseng scanned the plaza ahead. The long angry red blotch that covered part of his face felt like it was a plaster cast that covered his face. Damned Covenant plasma. He couldn't feel much pain now. He couldn't feel much of anything at all actually. The painkillers in the double-dose of MediGel he'd slathered on his face made sure of it. At least it wasn't likely to be infected.

The plaza was clear. Or more accurately it was clear of alien contact. There were dozens of bodies strewn on the pavement. Men, women, and children. The Covenant were merciless in their bombardment. Their plasma had blanketed much of the area, sapping away precious air and searing lungs. Whoever had been caught in the bombardment were subjected to a slow and horrific death. Most if not all of the corpses were contorted into painful shapes with their skin charred and half-melted like statues carved from charcoal.

Tseng glanced back at the rest of the group. Mostly office workers and police from the area. There were some militia fatigues in the crowd, but not nearly as many as he could hope for. The militia who were mixed in seemed content to let everyone else take charge. Mob rule.

An alien ship passed low overhead, the humming of whatever powered it setting his teeth on edge. When it was a relatively safe distance from them, he waved the others forward.

"Come on," he hissed. "We've got to make this quick."

Staying as low as possible while still on their feet, the group shuffled from cover to cover with several litters between them to make their way across the wide-open plaza. They carried an assortment of weapons mostly scavenged off of whatever they could find. There wasn't much of a shortage of that. But most of those weapons were ineffective while the group was moving. They were carrying the few wounded they could recover, including Tseng's partner, Cole Perez. If they couldn't make it to one of the triage points rumored to be set up near the southern edge of the island, their wounded weren't long for the world.

With Vergil down, they had no eyes in the area. Which meant getting physical eyes on a threat before the threat noticed them. Which meant moderating their pace. Not something they could do right then and there. They could have taken some of the vehicles that sat around, but that would have been like painting a huge bull's-eye on them for the fliers passing overhead. And with Vergil and the traffic grid out of commission, it would have been outright dangerous to use them.

The trick was to keep moving. As long as they kept one foot ahead of the other, there was a purpose. With that purpose came a certain strength. They had to make it to one of the triage area they had heard before the city's COM grid went down.

* * *

**New Mombasa Airspace, Earth**

**1008 Military Standard Time**

The hum of the dropship's antigravity units was a soothing sound. It was a reminder that extraction was close by, that reinforcements were incoming, and there was fire support available. It meant that help was coming. Not that any of the passengers on that particular dropship was willing to admit a need for help.

Shek 'Mantakree took a deep breath and looked down at his hands. Steady as they always were. His needle pistol was warm in the palm of his hand. It called to be used, begging to taste blood. But as his instructors back at the war academy had told him, this urge had to be channeled for the greater good of the Covenant.

Something big ricocheted off the side of the dropship, making the mixed unit of Unggoy and Kig-yar shift uneasily. Or at least the Kig-yar were uneasy. The squat Unggoy were seconds away from a full blown collective panic attack.

"Steady," 'Mantakree rumbled. He looked at his subordinates. "See to your files."

The other Sangheili nodded, passing amongst their subunits. Kig-yar were profit-driven and likely wouldn't need much in the way of encouragement. On the other hand, there was a reason why a common saying among commanders who dealt with Unggoy was "Beat them until their morale improves." For the life of him, he couldn't figure out why some of his brothers were so lenient with the squat creatures.

Their objective was a simple one for the interim: secure their assigned sector. Intelligence reports were still unreliable with only a small Covenant presence on the ground. Most of their assets were still tied up with the air and space battle. But they were here for a reason. The Prophet of Regret had given them these orders himself. Theirs was truly a holy mission.

A shift in the pitch of the antigravity units indicated that they were near the drop zone. Immediately 'Mantakree tensed up. The hatches would open and the fight would be on. His hands clenched the grip of his pistol. It was a symbol of his authority more than a tool of warfare particularly since his recent ascension to the honor of wearing the armor of a lance leader. Instead of fighting on the front lines, it fell on him to ensure that the ones who did were properly directed. But this was no rear-echelon posting. He would be in the thick of it all. He would be where he was meant to be.

"I believe our forefathers took an oath," he rumbled, his words being transmitted through the lance BattleNet."We give our service to the Covenant!"

"We gain honor in service!" the other Sangheili barked as one. Their words echoed in the confines of the troop bay.

"Through service the Great Journey!" the Unggoy shrieked more raggedly, the stimulants in their methane tanks taking effect.

"Brothers!"'Mantakree roared, pumping his pistol in the air. "May we take the Great Journey together!"

The hatches dropped open, warm sunlight spilling in and replacing the cool subdued lighting of the troop bay. With a roar, 'Mantakree charged, leaping out of the bay trusting in the antigravity drop systems to keep him from shattering his legs on the pavement far below. But even with the drop system his armored feet slammed heavily against the ground. Around him, his unit was landing. He only needed to wave them forward. No words were needed. It was time to kill heretics.

* * *

**New Mombasa 105 East, Old Mombasa, Earth**

**1001 Military Standard Time**

Sergeant Swagger blinked and ran his tongue over his teeth. He could taste the coppery tang of blood. Smell it, too. Turning his head slightly, he brushed the cargo netting away from him. Every movement felt like it took far too much effort like he was in the deep end of a gravity gym. His vision swam as he stared up at a hole burned clean through what had been the deck of the Pelican's troop bay. What the hell had hit them? What the hell had hit _him_?

His helmet's visor was still in place, albeit with a hairline crack running across the polycarbonate. The audio pick-ups hissed in his ears, but some quick percussive maintenance straightened it out. Immediately he could hear the sounds of a firefight.

"Ah, Christ," Swagger grunted, trying to roll over and get some leverage despite his body feeling like a giant bruise. He checked SQUADCOM. "This is Sergeant Swagger, is there anyone out there? What the hell's going on?" he asked as clearly as he could. Nothing. "This is Swagger, is there anyone out there?" he repeated. Still nothing. A quick diagnostic indicated a fault in the system. Great.

He reached out for his BR55. His armor's weapon retention system obviously was on the fritz. Working the charging handle, Swagger checked the open chamber. It should still work. The rifle was built tough, unlike his protective gear. Craning his head, he could see what was left of a flight suit. The cockpit had been crushed along with part of the front of the troop bay. It didn't look like anyone from his squad had been caught there though.

Getting onto his feet, he limped out toward the sheared-open rear hatch of the Pelican. There were more plasma holes that increased in size as he approached the opening. Now he could see his squad, arrayed in a loose fan behind a ragged wall of improvised cover. Piles of brass casings grew and collapsed as his Marines fired. Plasma tore through the air in shallow arcs. As he started to lower himself out of the Pelican, he found his world spinning again. The dropship groaned as a nearby explosion jolted it, turning it against whatever it had crashed against.

"They've got a Wraith!" Corporal Darius Elkin shouted, voice cracking as he dropped round after round from his M301 onto an unseen enemy. He staggered as another plasma mortar's shot landed close by. "Trips are set, so peel off by the numbers!"

They weren't using COM either. Another shot from a plasma mortar landed close by. Closer this time. Swagger propped the handguard of his rifle against the lip of the Pelican's hatchway and made a quick prayer as he activated the smartlink. Immediately a subwindow popped up on his cracked visor. He had an excellent view of the contacts coming up the street, and it didn't look good at all.

There were a trio of those Covenant tanks, supported by dozens of those vulture-like Jackals and Grunts. Great. He scrambled back as the plasma started gutting the cover as the Covenant made their advance. Broken-down benches and garbage cans simply vanished. Cars exploded or melted under the barrage. He saw Private Talia Lesch tumble when a plasma explosion took her foot and then another burned away her right arm and much of her upper torso. Lance Corporal Calum Agaia managed a half-scream when his back was peppered with pinkish shards of crystals before an actinic flash tore him in two.

To their credit, the squad was still peeling back despite their losses. Swagger pulled a smoke grenade from his armor webbing and primed it with a twist of the end-cap. A second later thick white smoke started to pour out of the bottom of the grenade. He tossed it out to provide some cover as the squad pulled back. If nothing else, the sudden cloud of thermally-active smoke would draw fire off of them. He was immediately vindicated when Covenant fire dropped off the squad and realigned on him.

"Knew that was a bad idea," Swagger hissed, crawling down toward the ruined front of the Pelican as the rear hatch started to melt and collapse.

There was a rent in the hull there that had to be large enough to crawl through. He could see the light streaming in through it at least. No time to make guesses. Jamming himself into it, Swagger pulled himself through what was left of the starboard nacelles. The liquid from leaking reaction mass tanks were soaking into his fatigues, the trihydride tetrazine staining them a vivid orange. He crawled under the jagged remains of the nacelles' guts that had provided thrust. Now they were just another hazard to get past.

His armor rasped against the sharp twisted metal as he pulled himself past them. There were loose wires everywhere as well, some still sparking. He dragged himself toward the light even as it felt like the whole assembly was trying to crush him. Fighting off the claustrophobia, Swagger somehow found himself looking at a desolate street.

There were abandoned cars in the middle of the street. Or at least some of them were abandoned. Some of the cars had been far too close to a plasma burst and showed it with half-melted chassis and charred corpses sitting in the driver's seat, and just as commonly other bodies in the rear of the vehicles. Aside from the cars there were even more obvious signs of the Covenant coming to make themselves at home. The bodies were a big one. Here and there, there were still-burning human bodies strewn on the streets. Sometimes there just parts, not even close to a complete body. Other times the bodies were too small to be adults.

As he dragged himself out of the Pelican, a shadow fell across him. Swagger immediately twisted to face it while bringing his rifle up. It was an excellent reflex. A single Elite towered over him, an eight foot tall bundle of muscle, teeth, and angry. Its eyes from what Swagger could see of them, gleamed with what could only be religious fervor. Then he squeezed the trigger of his BR55.

He'd accidentally pushed the selector to full automatic fire in his haste to bring it up. So when he squeezed the trigger, Swagger had to wrestle with the weapon after the runaway recoil smacked the butt against his shoulder and then the lip of his helmet. The rounds were still fairly on target though. Each hit made the invisible shields that protected all Elites spark and sizzle as it dissipated the impact. But they could only take so much punishment. With a rock and roll BR55, that tolerance was not all very high.

The Elite roared, stumbling back as its shields started to overload. Even with his helmet's filtration systems, Swagger could smell the ozone even as the hairs on his arms raised. Spent brass cascaded onto his leg, rolling off his thigh plate and onto the pavement. He tried to maintain his bead on the alien towering over him while still laying into the trigger. With a flash and audible pop, the Elite's shields collapsed. Just as it did, the battle rifle's bolt locked back. Empty.

"Shit!" Swagger screamed, scrabbling for his sidearm.

Roaring, the Elite took a step forward. The plasma rifle he held easily in one clawed hand was raised and poised to fire. Swagger closed his eyes, giving up on his M6 and instead grabbing one of the frags hooked to his belt webbing. He'd take the bastard out if it was the last thing he did.

But then it turned out he didn't need to. The lighter crackle of automatic 7.62x51mm fire erupted, and he saw sparks flash off the Elite's red armor accompanied by the occasional spray of indigo blood when a round found a joint. Turning his head toward the fire, he saw his squad, or at least what was left of it, advancing and firing. MA5s tended to not shoot too straight on automatic, but a smart shooter would shoot in controlled bursts. That worked out pretty good. He saw the Elite turn before finally seemingly tripping over its own feet and collapsing on top of Swagger's legs. Its indigo blood had been splattered all over the pavement behind it with more of it pooling around the cooling corpse.

Flexing his legs, he struggled to get himself extricated from the dead Elite. Damned fucker weighed a ton. His squad hustled over and did their best to help out while keeping an eye out for enemy contact.

"Thought you'd be free of me that easily, did you?" Swagger grunted, using his rifle like a lever to try to get some of the weight off his legs.

"No, Sergeant," Corporal Ivan Matolla said, on a knee and watching the area behind them.

They'd crash-landed next to the main bridge into New Mombasa. Just their luck. With a final effort, the Marines managed to move the corpse enough for Swagger to get back on his feet.

"Any of you have COM?" he asked, trying to wipe off the alien blood that had splattered his helmet visor.

"Negative, Sergeant," PFC Elgis Killebrew said. "Interference nearby. Fucking up our commo in a bad way."

"Any idea where we are?" Lance Corporal Liam Tigh asked, his M247 tracking with his eyes as he scanned the area behind the Pelican.

"Right where we're supposed to be," Swagger said, getting back onto his feet. He pointed at the buildings around them. "We have to get off the street before the Covenant punch-"

There was a thunderous explosion possibly fifty meters away, the blast wave washing over them a second after the sound.

"I don't think that's going to be too much of a problem, Sergeant," Elkin said. "They just tripped the-" Another explosion, just as loud, drowned out his words. "-second line. We stuck some C-12 in the cars. Seems to be working pretty well."

"They're pulling back, Sergeant!" Carolla shouted. "One tank down, and they didn't even hit the third line! We must've spooked them!"

Swagger felt uneasy. The Covenant weren't the type to just fall back after encountering a few traps. It was why they always sent the Grunts in first. But he wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth just yet.

"Okay, we need to get to any of the staging areas," he said finally. "We don't know what happened to the rest of the company, but it's our best chance. Regroup, rearm. But first," he pointed at Killebrew. "You and Elkin, get to some higher ground and see if you can punch through the scrambling. We'll provide security. Oorah?"

"Oorah," Killebrew said with a nod.

* * *

**Nyali Road, Old Mombasa, Earth**

**1010 Military Standard Time**

Another beam from the Locusts cut across the highway. The Covenant had started to coordinate their fire. The Locusts would work over specific areas with their fire while the infantry occupying the buildings would keep the soldiers below pinned down for their cannons. The lightest kiss of the plasma was enough to ignite the hydrogen cells of the few cars on the road, launching blue-white fireballs into the air.

Half-deaf from the GPMG going cyclic next to his cheek, Leeds swung his weapon back and forth in curving shapes to maximize the beaten ground his platoon was putting down. Part of him wondered if "beaten ground" applied to the sides of buildings. Their fire had driven the alien infantry off the rooftops and into the upper floors of the towers.

"Goddamn it!" Leeds shrieked. "Can't we call in artillery to smoke these bastards?"

"No can do! They're right on top of us!" PFC Owen Gray shouted back to him. "There's danger close and then there's this!"

Somebody screamed nearby, accompanied by the sizzle of cooking flesh and crackle of melting armor. As he swung the barrel back again, Leeds felt the air where he had just been heat up with a momentary pop. Sniper. He could just barely make out the pale vapor trail left by the plasma bolt. Tagging its likely origin with his helmet's designator system, he ducked down.

"Sniper!" he shouted. "Marked!"

"On it," Specialist Terence Algis grunted as he got into position with his M41 SSM. "Got him. Thermobaric. Clear back!"

It took two seconds for the launcher's targeting module to pick out the target and input it into the warhead guidance systems. After that, it was all like clockwork. The M41 thumped, dropping slightly as the weight of one rocket vanished from the launcher.

The rocket streaked away faster than the eye could track. With the warhead fuzed for a delay, it could shatter the polycrete and brick wall of the target building before it went off. And there was no mistaking when it detonated. Not with a thermobaric charge. Fluoridated aluminum and ethylene oxide expanded with the burster wave of the primary charge. It filled the enclosed space quickly and violently, raising temperatures to slightly over three thousand degrees Celsius while buffeting anything and everything inside with reflective shockwaves. In short, anyone unfortunate to be within the enclosed blast area were simultaneously cooked and crushed by unimaginable force. Anything alive for ten stories above and below the initial detonation now wasn't. A rush of blue flame vented from the suddenly-shattered windows as well as all of the other holes they had put in the building.

"Keep it up! Air Force birds are incoming!" Moore shouted. "Keep firing!"

Tearing his eyes away from the spectacle, Leeds pressed himself against his machine gun and resumed firing for scant seconds before his bolt locked back. Empty. Damn. His ammo pouches were empty as well. Double damn.

"Weapon down! Loading! Owen, I'm out of ammo!" he called out as he used a leg to sweep away the pile of brass and links accumulated under his weapon. A hand too close to the barrel reminded him of another thing. Three boxes was the maximum before his barrel started to actually wilt and glow. "Changing barrel!"

Pulling the barrel grip off of his armor, he applied the insulated clamps to the barrel of the GPMG and gave it a good twist. Gray knelt down next to him with a fresh box of ammo even as he began the touchy process of removing the barrel from the machine gun. A stray bolt of plasma passed dangerously close by but he continued almost obliviously to swap the barrel. Extracting the spare barrel from its mounting in the lower handguard, Leeds snapped it into place quickly. The overheated barrel was propped up against the half-burnt car he was taking shelter behind to cool off. He quickly laid the fresh belt and had it firing again. That damned CAS had better be coming soon...

* * *

**Old Mombasa Quays, Mombasa, Earth**

**1012 Military Standard Time**

"Follow the light."

Still slightly dazed, Private Wainwright did as the medic said. His left shoulder was mostly biofoam and spacer now, the fingers spasmodically twitching. He was seated against the railing of the ferry and trying to his best to track the penlight that the medic was waving in front of him. He desperately wanted to just close his eyes. Lord knew he'd earned it.

"Jesus, okay," the medic said after a moment.

Wainwright watched him remove a syrette from one of the pouches on his vest and pull its cap off with his teeth. He felt a prick as he jabbed the needle into his inner thigh at a shallow angle. Letting it sit there for a moment, the medic pulled out a paint marker and scribbled twinned hash marks on Wainwright's cheeks.

"Okay, Private," he said. "I just gave you a stim. Think you can get up?"

"Think so," Wainwright grunted, his good arm reaching up and fumbled for the railing.

It felt as if his body weighed nothing as he pulled himself up. He tested his right arm only to feel something akin to a grinding sensation as he tried to rotate his shoulder.

"Don't do that," the medic said. He was from Charlie Company, one of the stragglers picked up during the boarding. "Your muscles aren't even close to being able to support that."

"Gotta," Wainwright said, clenching his hands into fists. Good. At least he could do that.

His one good hand couldn't carry and handle the MA3 anymore, but the receiver failure it had suffered made sure it couldn't even be fired anyway. The chamber had split open like a palm. He checked his sidearm as he looked around.

The anti-aircraft guns were firing almost non-stop. But in the distance there were already Covenant penetrations into mainland airspace. Hell, the smoke and fire rising up from Old Mombasa said that clearly enough.

"Todd, you hear the news?" PFC Clark Wheldon asked as he walked up. "There's still civvies in New Mombasa."

"I thought we got them all," Wainwright said, his words slurring slightly.

"Yeah, well obviously not. Come on, we're getting new tasking," Wheldon said with a jerk of his chin.

The quays had been blasted secure by the Air Force around the same time as its counterpart in New Mombasa. Three platoons of Marines had been dropped in to hold the position as well. Late to the party as always. But they were welcome support. Especially with the two M808B MBTs holding down the entrance.

They walked past numerous defensive positions in the process of being set up. Marines were hauling M247s up into one of the squat administration buildings. Instacrete-filled sandbags created defilade firing positions for the tanks as well as several militia Warthogs and even more machine guns. Mortar teams were also setting up with sizeable stores of shells next to them. And of course there was the process of pulling abandoned vehicles over for cover. Several militiamen were busy pulling the cars' fuel cells and running them over to the Marine combat engineers to rig up as explosives. Any alien coming around for a look was going to be kicked vigorously in the teeth.

Captain Isabelle Aubrey was having her arm checked over by a corpsman as what was left of the militia company convened around her. She held up her COM pad and shooed away the corpsman.

"Listen up, men," she said as she brought up a map for the roughly forty men and women to see. "Forty-third Armored is making their way through Old Town. They've detached one of their Ollie companies to pick the civilians up. ETA ten minutes."

A Covenant corvette in the distance exploded, punctuating her words.

"Okay, load up. Beg, borrow, or steal ammo from the devil dogs. I want the wounded on the line with the Marines. Everyone else stand by for new tasking. You got me?"

"Yes ma'am," they chorused raggedly.

"Captain, what about the rumors about people still on the island?" Sergeant Rory McCall asked. It wasn't common for the NCOs to question an officer, but these were trying times.

Aubrey paused for a second. "The NMPD and Sixth Battalion are still clearing the shelters."

The militia stood there for a moment in silence. This was their fault. All of them had known exactly what they had signed up for: to protect the citizens of their planet. In their haste to evacuate, they had left people behind. There'd be talk about acceptable lapses if they somehow survived, but they already felt that the blame fell solely on their own shoulders. They had been too weak. And now the people of their city were going to be paying for it with their blood.

Several Marabou transports flew in low overhead, escorted by Vulture gunships. It seemed to Wainwright that there was something inherently funny about what was essentially two aircraft of the same make but different model flying together. With the level of firepower that a single Vulture could put down, there was no doubt that they were going to be reaching their destination unmolested.

"Okay, come on, people," Aubrey said, clapping her gloved hands together. "Let's not lose any more."

* * *

**Lumumba Road, New Mombasa, Earth**

**1011 Military Standard Time**

Except for the chatter of the Unggoy unloading supplies, there was no sound on the street. Which meant that 'Mantakree had to spend more time listening to his Unggoy second try to translate for the file commander.

"No contacts, sir," his second said after a moment's deliberation. "Except for sniper." The red-armored Unggoy chittered something else. "But forces have already swept through area. No further, sir."

'Mantakree nodded, disappointed. Their landing had been uncontested. He had seen the victim of the human sniper, one of the Unggoy specialists. Its viridian armor had been shattered by the needle-like rounds that human snipers favored. But aside from that, there was nothing else on this worthless pile of dirt. Nothing worth fighting at least. There were plenty of human bodies though.

"Gather the troops," he said finally to the other Sangheili. "We move now."

They had to secure the city for the arrival of the Prophet. There was no doubt that the city would fall into their hands. 'Mantakree had seen the reports of the number of casualties being inflicted on the humans. Commanders across the area of operations were cutting bloody paths through the defenders. Through the filthy heretics. He was looking forward to it.

"Brother," Valak 'Wattinree said as he walked up with a slight smile. "The _Reverent Submissionary_ has been detached to provide our sector with fire support."

'Mantakree mirrored his expression. "Excellent news."

The _Reverent Submissionary_ was one of the remnants of the Fleet of Particular Justice, too crippled by human orbital defenses to follow Supreme Commander Thel 'Vadamee to Halo. It had spared them the fate and ignominy of the survivors when the Demon destroyed the Halo. 'Mantakree had heard rumors of the Ship Master of the _Submissionary_ being indiscriminate when ground forces requested fire. But a destroyer was a destroyer. And the energy projector and the firepower it brought onto the battlefield was unquestionable.

The combined unit moved out under a sky lit with explosions and weapon fire. They had a city to exterminate.

* * *

**COBB Industrial Park, Old Mombasa, Earth**

**1017 Military Standard Time**

They were nearing their first objective waypoint. Tall but rugged buildings rose up from both sides of the streets, a stark contrast to the other buildings 'Sraomee had seen in the holograms. He and his Rangers had entered what was quite obviously an industrial area. Unlike Covenant manufacturing facilities and their graceful curving lines, the humans had used a much more brutal and angular architecture of baser materials. 'Sraomee kept an eye on the skyline as they moved. He had an uncomfortable feeling that somebody was watching his unit.

"Scouts, move ahead and get visual confirmation of the target location," he said as he waved the group down and toward a paved area where the humans parked their vehicles. "All others, you may have a moment."

Several of the Kig-yar that the Rangers had linked up with immediately sought out positions behind the others in the most defensible areas. Rations miraculously appeared in their talons as they settled down for a meal. 'Sraomee didn't trust them. The Kig-yar had not joined the Covenant for the Great Journey. The vermin had been pirates who were welcomed at sword-point. Mercenaries. The very idea of fighting for money drew up a bitter taste in his mouth.

Even as he knelt down next to one of the human vehicles, 'Sraomee kept an eye on the visual feeds from his scouts. He withdrew a bar of pressed protein from his harness and snapped off a large chunk of the flavorless material. Watching as one of the scouts settled into a perch overlooking the objective, he let the piece of protein sit against his lower mandibles and tongue. Without hydration, chewing on it would have been like trying to chew on a lump of chalk. It beat the Unggoy and their nutrient gruel.

A note chimed in his ear. A message? "This is Commander Hatam 'Sraomee," he said, opening his BattleNet link.

"Commander 'Sraomee, we believe that the mission you have embarked upon for us is of an utmost importance to our Covenant," the voice said, a dry and airy one that all knew. Even thought it was just his voice, 'Sraomee had to fight the compulsion to fall to a knee. The idea of the Prophet of Regret himself taking a personal interest in his mission was beyond comprehension.

"Holy One, I am-" he paused, trying to find words.

"No matter," the Prophet said. "I have allocated one of my Mgalekgolo guards to your operation. Do not disappoint me."

"Never, Holy One," 'Sraomee said, instinctively bowing his head.

After the Prophet had disconnected, his eyes flicked to the subwindow showing the feeds from his scouts. The building looked fairly unassuming. Large human lettering ran down a corner, and several rather obvious defensive positions had been set up around the building. They originally would have needed to bypass them through a clever combination of stealth and slaughter. But with the promised Mgalekgolo, things had become a good deal simpler.

"Attention, we have Mgalekgolo reinforcement incoming," he said to his unit. "I am sure we all remember our manners around them."

He was already receiving the telemetry from the incoming dropship. It was amazing how many things you could fit into one of the Phantoms. The Mgalekgolo would be a welcome addition to the unit, particularly with the complication of the defensive positions that needed to be removed. But they would need to be handled carefully. Mgalekgolo were the Covenant's heavy shock troops, separate but connected to the Sangheili-led Covenant Army. It meant that while they accepted orders, each Mgalekgolo pair was under no obligation to follow orders given by the Sangheili and those below them. And any order they issued was punishable by death if unfollowed. 'Sraomee remembered the disciplinary execution back on the formerly human world of "Arcadia." After several Kig-yar mercenaries spoke out of turn after looting a human building, a Mgalekgolo pair had taken their pound of flesh from them. The offending Kig-yar were quickly dismembered with a few strikes of the Mgalekgolo's shields before their remains were they swiftly crushed underfoot. A young File Commander at the time, 'Sraomee could still remember the cut-off squawks of the avian-like mercenaries followed by the squeals of the Unggoy as they feasted.

"Sir," Uhri 'Crolunee said, kneeling next to him with his own ration pack. "We are receiving Mgalekgolo?"

"Correct," 'Sraomee said with a nod. "Remind anyone who has forgotten their training. They are incoming in three units. Then we move out to assault the position."

"Praise the Ancients for the small miracles."

* * *

**Ivory Spire Reflection Park, New Mombasa, Earth**

**1014 Military Standard Time**

"New Mombasa Police Department! New Mombasa Police Department!"

The warning shout echoed in the glass-covered confines of the park. Mack Gerhardt swept his MA5C between likely points of cover. They were supposed to be shooting aliens, but some of the citizenry had seen fit to start looting the city while the authorities were busy evacuating New Mombasa. With the Superintendent down, things were getting particularly fuzzy.

"Clear," he said, keying his COM with the pressure switch taped to his offhand wrist.

"Clear," Hector Williams echoed as he cleared his section.

"Clear," Robert Brown said, pivoting from his assigned section to keep an eye out.

"All clear," Charles Gray reported as he finished his sweep. "Come on in, Top."

The SWAT team had to keep an eye out both towards the interior of the park as well as outside where the battle for the city was openly occurring. They could see the air battle quite clearly, Covenant ships clashing with UNSC Skyhawks and Longswords.

Jonas Blane entered, one arm strapped up thanks to a compound fracture from a tumble when their van had hit a curb far too hard. The Warthog would have taken it without flipping, but they had to abandon it first and foremost because there were aliens crawling all over the area when they had left. And more vitally, there was no space for Gray's wife, Joss. She had been caught by a steam explosion after the preliminary Covenant bombardment. Warthogs were not particularly spacious, and their suspension was no kind to burn victims.

"Okay, this way," Blane said, pointing towards one of the inset doors after a quick consultation of his COM pad.

The Superintendent had been dropping on and offline all morning. They had been lucky enough to pull the necessary maps of the area off the mainframe. Gerhardt led the way, his rifle ready as he came up to the door. Gray led the stack with Williams and then Brown at the rear. At Gray's nod, he disengaged the lock with his SWAT-issue electronic master key. When he delivered a forward kick, the doors flew inwards with an explosive cracking sound.

They swarmed in, weapons up and sweeping as they entered the corridor. Moving quickly, their rubber-soled boots made no sound except for the occasional rasp of an embedded pebble against the tile floor. Another door, this one with the City Shelter emblazoned on it, lay at the other end of the corridor. The hallway had not been breached either. Things were looking good.

The shelter door was a hydraulically-actuated affair with an electronically-keyed lock that could be manually overridden in case of power loss and other emergencies. When New Mombasa was built, the city fathers had thought of just about every contingency. These shelters had been built in case of a flood, as well as the chance Insurrectionists would have tried to attack the city en masse. They hadn't counted on genocidal aliens, but the workmanship stood up even to that.

Tapping in the NMPD override code, Gerhardt gestured for the others to hang back slightly. Grabbing the handle, he could feel the bolts sliding back one by one before the door was fully unlocked. He twisted the handle and pulled. The door swung open on well-lubricated bearings. Heavy enough to take a sustained plasma bombardment, it took no small amount of elbow grease to open it up. But it was well maintained and made barely a sound as it opened.

"New Mombasa Police Department!" Gerhardt shouted down into the staircase that lay beyond.

There was no response. He repeated himself again.

What appeared to be a white tie was thrust out into view.

"We're unarmed! Don't shoot!" a man's voice shouted.

"Step back, we're coming in!" Gerhardt called back, waving for the others to peel in.

Unlike the usual action movies' dark hallways, the shelter was very well lit. Regularly spaced lights made it easy to see where exactly you were stepping. They quickly descended to the open door.

"I thought these guys were supposed to be evacuated," Brown muttered, leaning in for a look. "Looks clear."

They piled into the shelter, weapons lowered but still ready. The City Shelter was identical to every other one in the city by design. It was intended to be large enough to fit a city block of people, but this one was a little more empty. There were maybe thirty civilians instead of the projected two hundred for a commercial area.

"NMPD SWAT," Gerhardt said by way of introduction, looking around. "Is anyone injured?"

"No, officer," one of the civilians said, his suit giving him away as some corporate type.

Brown and Gray quickly opened up the medical station and started searching for supplies. Joss would need all the MediGel they could get, and there was no chance they were saying no to some biofoam canisters.

Gerhardt walked amongst the civilians, checking them over with his own eyes. They seemed uninjured as the man had said. But there was one figure who stuck out immediately to him. She glared back at him, arms crossed.

"Good morning, _officer_," she said coldly.

"Connors," he said with a nod. "I suppose the fact that you've violated parole doesn't count for much now." Gerhardt looked around. "Where're your partners?"

"Don't know. The Covenant got here before I reached the office."

Not exactly a hardened criminal, Connors was still the career-making arrest for him. She and her partners, "Cel" and "Merc" had run a highly lucrative and highly illegal courier operation for the city underworld. That had been almost three years ago. Gerhardt had pursued Connors across the roofs of New Mombasa after spotting her from his Genet patrol car. Five minutes later, he had managed to corral her over a plaza after putting a round in her thigh. Ten minutes after that, she was being booked. Two days after that, he found that his SWAT application had been approved despite being at nearly the bottom of the pile.

She certainly hadn't been happy about it. He had heard rumors that she was back to her old tricks after being released on a technicality. But now was not likely the best of times to ask about it.

A buzzing in his earpiece distracted him for a second. He waved to Blane.

"Superintendent's back online!"

A check of the COM pad showed new troop dispositions in New and Old Mombasa. It didn't look good. Especially for the island. What militia units there were left in the city were being torn to pieces. The police stand-down was still in effect, but there were plenty of police-tagged IDs moving around the city. And of course, Kinsler had his own little escort for whatever he was doing.

"Alert! Hot call, armed suspect in NMPD Headquarters Building! Priority alert!" the pad chirped.

The SWAT officers looked at each other in disbelief. Should they take the call? What the hell could have even caused that to come out on the net? Never mind the problem of it being suspiciously timed. Someone high up wanted help cleaning up a mess. Fuck them.

"Are there any evac sites still operational?" Gray asked, tapping in a command to dismiss the alert. "There's got to be."

Blane nodded. "The Cube is still open," he said, scanning the map. "There are several in the northern districts. And Plaza One."

"Okay, we're going to the Cube," Gerhardt said. "Bob, what's our status on resupply?"

"Pretty good," Brown said. "Cube, huh? Remember that call we had a few years back?"

"Yeah, that was pretty weird."

Most of the city employees like the NMPD SWAT units referred to ONI's presence in New Mombasa as "The Cube." It was a quick and rather accurate description of the building they had erected just north of the elevator. Clad in forty stories of dark ceramic tile, the building, or at least the above-ground section of the building was essentially a rather large cube. The orderliness extended inside, which made the one time they had been called in a snap. Or at least it would have been if it hadn't been for extenuating circumstances for the initial call...

"Everybody, listen up!" Gerhardt said loudly, clapping his hands for attention. "We're going to see if we can get to the ONI Building's evacuation site! Take only what you can carry and still run with only!"

"What? No way!" the business guy shouted. "We're safe here! The Covenant don't even know that we're here!"

"Yeah?" Williams shouted back, bristling, "And what happens when they do? The whole island's been locked down! Almost all of the evac sites are shut down!"

"We can negotiate with them!" he responded.

"Fuck." Pulling his helmet off, Gerhardt scratched the back of his head in irritation. "Top, we should move out."

Blane nodded and then walked over to one of the terminals and started to input commands. Gerhardt peered over his shoulder and frowned. It made sense. Small red light strips came on around the shelter walls.

"I have activated the beacon," he announced to the civilians. "That means that UNSC forces have been alerted that this shelter remains active and requires help. Those of you who wish to stay can wait for retrieval. Anyone else can accompany us to the ONI evacuation site. Fifteen minutes."

So the options for the civilians were either waiting for the Marines to reach their shelter or they could try to reach an active evacuation site. Gerhardt sincerely hoped they would see sense and follow them to the evac site. The beacon would probably be picked up by the Covenant as well...

"I'll go," Connors said in the silence. "You're cops, but you're all right."

"Thanks," Gerhardt said with a smirk. "Anyone else?"

Much to his dismay, there were no other volunteers. He wasn't going to press the point. Things were moving too quickly and too chaotically. The cynical voice of pragmatism whispered into his ear about the excess weight that the extra passengers would bring along.

"Top, we need a different route on the streets," he said, shoulders slumping slightly. "We were all but lit up on our way in."

Someone cleared their throat. Turning, Gerhardt looked at Connors who was pointedly tapping her foot.

"I think you're forgetting something," she said.

Gerhardt didn't think he much liked the playful tone in her voice.

"And what's that?" he asked cautiously...

* * *

**HIGHCOM Facility Bravo-6, Sydney, Earth**

**1007 Military Standard Time**

Watching artillery at work from a bird's eye view was unnerving. Captain Firimbi kept an eye on the other displays of the units in his area of responsibility, but his attention was focused on directing the long-range artillery fire. While troops could call in fire, it usually fell upon the controllers to actually direct the fall of the rounds. Every time a laser-guided shell landed, a black splotch would obscure the target area and sensors would no longer detect aliens in the area that the splotch covered. It must have been horrifying to be caught in the rain of bomblets.

A blinking light diverted his attention, another request for fire support. He directed the telemetry to the Marine artillery battalion holding outside of Mombasa before returning to work fine-tuning the trajectories to maximize casualties. He quickly finished up and returned to shifting forces around.

Mombasa was a mess, with Marine first-response units cut off in the city and needing support. There were even more of them in Old Mombasa, mixed up in nasty urban fighting. The overall plan required that Old Mombasa be swept clean before they could enter New Mombasa. Except that some idiot had dropped a battalion of ODSTs into the western edge of the island. If they had landed on the far side, it would have made his job much easier. They would be out of his area of responsibility, as well as tying up Covenant resources. As it was...

"Hold tight," he said into his headset. "I have relief coming in for pick-up."

* * *

**Kilindini Bridge, New Mombasa, Earth**

**1008 Military Standard Time**

"Well tell them we're waiting, sir!"

Dancing out of the path of a plasma barrage, Sergeant Mohammed Samakab Wilhelm pivoted on the heel of his boot and half-fell behind the meager cover of a planter. Damned tank... Whoever said the anti-air Wraiths were shit against infantry had obviously never been shot at by one before. Raising his M7 over the lip of the planter, he fired a quick suppressive burst with the help of his VISR link.

He saw Corporal Piper drop, the plasma turning her arms into sizzling stumps. Staff Sergeant Sweet dragged her behind a burned-out truck for Doc Grace to work his magic. Team Three's anti-armor capability had been taken out, much like the team itself. One had misdropped about a klick west of them, deeper into the city, but they had managed to link up a few minutes ago. Not that they were doing much good on that end.

Team One was well and truly pinned down despite Wilhelm's Team Two's best efforts. No anti-armor assets short of climbing onto one of the tanks and shoving a demo pack somewhere delicate. Sergeant Shimani had tried that and there were still fragments of his armor cooling on the pavement out in the open. But...

"Lieutenant, this is Team Two, we have a solution!" He barked into his mic before switching channels. "We need something with fucking elevation!" Wilhelm snarled. "Team, grab what demo you can!"

Kicking away from cover, he sprinted for the shelter of an overpass. With the majority of the Covenant distracted by the other Shock Troopers' defensive positions, it was almost too easy. The rest of Team Two quickly found their way over to him with several satchel-sized blast packs. From this angle it was easier to see where the majority of the forces were and what needed to be done. Wilhelm pointed out a suitably tall building. Immediately his VISR started to receive the blueprints of the building. Excellent.

"Stay low," he said before making a break for the building.

Their crossing was uncontested until some alien noticed them ducking into the building. Immediately one of the Covenant vehicles turned their attention to them. A storm of plasma slashed into the side of the building, driving the Troopers deeper into the building. It was one of the specialty food shops that sprouted up in the oddest places. Or at least the first floor or two were. What is was didn't matter to him. Only the mass and amount of demo needed to drop it did.

"You know the drill," he said, taking one of the demo packs and keying it for command detonation before tossing it as close as he could to the corner facing the incoming fire. "Two floors should be fine."

They got to work setting up the charges and priming them. What they were doing was hardly the refined art of combat engineers. This was the application of raw explosive force to reshape the battlefield. It was unsubtle and very crude, but it would have to do.

"We're cleared, Sergeant," Sergeant Thorvaldsen said, returning from prepping the second floor.

"I have the signal," he said the moment the trigger icons appeared on his VISR. "Team, move out! You wanna live, you get the fuck out of the shadow! Ten thataway!" he barked, pointing out towards the street opposite the one they had entered. "Lieutenant, this is Team Two, recommend you button up in a few seconds!"

Their exfiltration of the building could not exactly be called "clean," but it could certainly be called "efficient." Dashing across the empty floor, the Shock Troopers battered their way through tables and any other obstruction light enough to be knocked away by a few hundred pounds of man and temperature-hardened armor composite backed up with strength-amplifying circuits. And what they couldn't just knock away was leapt over. It was not dissimilar to a bull in a china shop they way they battered their way through to the exit. Jars of preserves and juices were shattered and their jewel-like contents were churned into a gray-brown sludge by the passage of the Shock Troopers.

Cannoning through the door, Wilhelm didn't have the time to check the street for unfriendlies. The wounded gray-skinned Grunts that had been dragged back from the fight didn't even notice the tan and brown shadows as they sprinted away from the building. Staying low, he hunkered down behind a commercial truck and checked for his team's transponders. All clear. Excellent.

"Fire in the hole," he called over the open channel. He repeated himself twice more before triggering the demo packs.

The sound of the demo packs exploding was drowned out by the crackle and hiss of plasma fire. But then the Covenant's weapons were drowned out by a deluge of razor sharp glass and polycrete fragments followed shortly by most of the building. There was more than one way to skin a cat. Using a series of high-explosive charges to collapse a four-story building in the right direction was a rather useful way about it. The Covenant vehicles were completely immobilized if not crushed under the mass of the debris.

That had done the trick, eliminating the main force pinning the Helljumpers down. He could see from the other teams' helmet feeds that they were dealing with a much smaller and, more importantly, all-_infantry_ force. But it had also kicked the hornet's nest. This was almost easier than killing hornets though.

"Put 'em down!" Wilhelm barked, raising his submachine gun and firing.

Grunts shrieked and fired back, their shots erratic after losing their Elite commanders. Those were still dangerous though. It was simple enough to mow down the opposition since they were so kind as to start from a prone position. He and Thorvaldsen's submachine guns sounded like sewing machines from hell as they hosed down the street. The M7 was a weapon for a less refined age despite its cachet in the special operations community. It was a simple weapon with a simple task: Put as much of the magazine downrange as quickly as possible. And it excelled at that role.

Five-millimeter slugs tore through air and the dense flesh of the squat Grunts with equal ease. It was no fight. This was an execution. Corporal Kerr's shotgun boomed in the confines of the street, each blast alternating between shredding buckshot and devastating slugs that all contributed to the growing mess.

The team advanced as one, walking carefully in a line as they kept up their fire to corner and destroy their prey. There was minimal cover, but it beat sticking to what cover there was and getting clobbered by the still-falling building. Or worse, getting stuck behind the fallen debris.

"Got a runner!" Corporal Groves shouted, his words punctuated by the heavy crack of his rifle. "Eleven o'clock, ten! Still moving!"

Wilhelm was already pivoting with his M7 at the ready. The shape of the tall alien fit nicely under the posts of his weapon's sights. It was almost like a turkey shoot whenever explosives entered the equation against the Covenant. His trigger finger applied pulses of pressure to send short and rapid bursts downrange at the blue-armored Elite. The rest of the team joined, firing as if one. The alien's shield sparked and popped, crackling audibly even at a distance as it was overwhelmed. The BR55 an MA5's larger-caliber slugs battered it, followed by the more persistent hail of five-millimeter rounds and a whiff of buckshot. It stumbled as its shields were breached shortly followed by a partial dismemberment from the semi-coordinated fire.

"Thanks for that reprieve," Lieutenant Staedtler said over the COM as they policed up the corpses.

Emerging into the intersection, all that Wilhelm could see to his right was the pile of shattered building where the shop used to be. Their demolition-work had been spot on. Although now it meant that they needed to figure out a way _around_ the ruins they created since it covered the street.

"Sergeant, I've got friendly contacts incoming," PFC Byron said. "You see 'em?"

"Yes I do," Wilhelm said. "Bright and clear."

His VISR was feeding him compiled footage from several different airborne sensor units in the area. It all spelled out a convoy of Warthogs bearing in on them. He could do with some good news for once...

* * *

**COBB Industrial Park, Old Mombasa, Earth**

**1026 Military Standard Time**

First went the sentries manning the emplaced weapons in front of the building. Near simultaneous bolts of plasma relieved them of their heretical thought-filled heads. Before the bodies could even fall, the Mgalekgolo charged with a roar.

Even with years of experience, 'Sraomee could not quite grasp how to quantify what a Mgalekgolo was. They were after all twin colonies of Lekgolo that thought as one. Which could simultaneously qualify them as both two individuals or one. It was idle semantics like that which could keep him awake some cycles. It was a luxury afforded by rank. After a moment's thought, he decided to leave the decision to the Prophets. Safer that way.

Hissing green snakes of metal-enriched incendiary gel carved jigsaw-like patterns into the hastily-erected barricades before washing over them completely and leaving only a half-molten puddle. The return fire was light, the humans' rifles unable to breach the thick armor of the Mgalekgolo let alone their battle shields. The Mgalekgolo shifted fire onto defensive positions further into the human factory while standing square in the gateway leading into the facility.

"Advance!" 'Sraomee bellowed, bounding over a ruined vehicle that the Mgalekgolo had crushed underfoot like a toy. "Onwards, my brothers!"

The Rangers rose and followed, flowing over their cover with their weapons firing. Streams of plasma crossed and wove between whatever resistance had been left following the Mgalekgolo charge. Some of the defenders fell dead with their flesh carbonized and half-melted. Others exploded, the concentrated plasma strikes flash evaporating the blood and whatever other fluids in their bodies. For advances across open terrain, it was best to saturate the enemy positions with fire to keep them preoccupied with not being hit. It was sound advice. And that advice was exemplified by the firestorm that they were putting down.

But the Mgalekgolo were a sight to behold. The bonded pair moved as one, each aware of the other's location. They moved more like predatory felines than the multi-ton living weapons that they were. Their iridescent armor and shields shone in the sunlight as they strode headlong into the heavy fire. The Mgalekgolo did not even attempt any form of defensive action. There was no need to. Bullets skipped off of their armor with the occasional spark from what were supposedly armor-piercing rounds. A pair of rockets streaked past, un-aimed by panicked firers. Against the Mgalekgolo, nothing less would have injured them. And they knew it.

Finally coming up on the Mgalekgolo position, the Rangers settled into cover and continued firing, now with more care. There were dozens of the humans and more were streaming out to fire at them. Shields sparked as they dissipated the impacts of dozens of the miniscule metal slugs.

"Mgalekgolo, target!" 'Sraomee shouted to be heard over the loud gunfire. "Second level, sweep across!"

The verbal response was less heard than felt as a bass rumble. Immediately green fire swept across the second level of the human building. It crumbled and melted, weeping rivers of molten stone or whatever it was that the humans built their structures with. The Mgalekgolo continued to saturate the designated area with fire until the heat-weakened metal finally buckled and part of the building facade collapsed.

"Perhaps in retrospect this may not have been such a great idea, Commander," Ranger 'Crolunee said to him, watching the building crumbling. "I do not think that even the Mgalekgolo understand the parameters of the operation."

"Cease firing," 'Sraomee barked. "All units cease fire!"

The firing tapered off until only the sound of heat-weakened collapsing metal could be heard. Surprisingly the Mgalekgolo had ceased fire as well.

"It is quiet," one of the Jiralhanae suddenly remarked.

"Yes, too quiet," 'Sraomee said. "Mgalekgolo, I need an entryway over _there_."

One of the Mgalekgolo pair nodded, or made a motion similar to a Sangheili nod. The Mgalekgolo advanced, crushing the still-hot debris and charred corpses underfoot. A short blast from an assault cannon weakened the wall and then the pair battered their way through with their shields. The wall seemed to fold up on itself under the stress. Under the tremendous force of the shields, the wall section crumpled and was torn clear of its foundations. 'Sraomee could see the Mgalekgolo compact to compensate for the reduced space within. The sensors built into the pair's armor painted the room beyond. Clear.

"Move in," he hissed. "Kig-yar, hang back and secure the perimeter."

They stormed into the new opening, unopposed as they flooded into the confines of the building. 'Sraomee stepped with distaste over the body of a human who had been too close to the debris-clogged entrance. Overpressure from the assault cannons had popped its eyes while its tongue stuck out like a purplish worm from its mouth. He had enough experience from battle and the briefings on human biology to tell that the human was well and truly dead. It was no way to die, bleeding from their ear organs as they were starved of oxygen by collapsed lungs. It was a coward's death, hiding from the inevitable.

'Sraomee looked around the room. It was like many other human industrial facilities he had seen before. Small and cramped, it had tiny cubicles for Yan'me-like human workers. But beyond the doors at the rear would be a vast manufacturing facilities.

"Put down whatever that is, Ranger, we are moving," he said to 'Moramee.

"Understood, Commander," he said, dropping the curious floppy polymer sheet he had been examining next to a computer terminal.

Repeater ready, 'Sraomee placed a hand on the door leading into the facility and pushed. It swung open to reveal vast metal tanks with intricate human machinery surrounding them. There appeared to be other strange and undoubtedly heretical machinery as well. This might have made a Huragok more pleased than a starving Jiralhanae at an all-meat buffet. At his wave, the Rangers dissolved their formation to start their search.

The lights suspended on the ceiling far overhead casted long obscuring shadows with the help of the white-painted tanks. Long catwalks formed a lattice above the massive tanks. With poor line of sight, it made an excellent ambush point. 'Sraomee could smell something sickly sweet in the air, but his sensors only mentioned an elevated level of fluorine in the atmosphere. A glance at the Jiralhanae showed that they had scented it as well judging from their sniffling and snout scratching.

"Clear so far," 'Moramee reported.

The lights went out. 'Sraomee was already moving while changing over to thermal imaging. The metal tanks were now glowing, their infrared emissions illuminating the rest of the area rather wall.

"All Rangers, hold position and-"

There was a squealing sound followed by a deafening hissing screech and the bass rumble of the Mgalekgolo. His visor display updated to show one half of the bonded pair gone. That only happened if the roster was edited by command authority, or if their embedded transponder had not only gone offline but was completely destroyed...

Immediately he heard the trumpeting cry of a Mgalekgolo that had its bond sundered. His heartbeats ratcheted upwards.

"Converge on the last location of the Mgalekgolo!" he barked. "Move!"

* * *

**Kilindini Bridge, New Mombasa, Earth**

**1012 Military Standard Time**

"What the _fuck_ are you guys wearing?"

"What?" Even with their helmets' ear protection, Wilhelm couldn't hear things properly after the firefight.

"I said, what are you wearing, Sergeant? Your armor," the other sergeant said, enunciating.

Sitting against the roll cage of the M831 troop transport, Wilhelm raised his arm up to look at. His forearm plate was scratched and battle-worn already like the rest of his armor. But the sandy gray paintjob was still very obvious. The sergeant was another Shock Trooper, from the UNSC _Aegis Fate_ according to his IFF flash. Unlike the rowdy boys of the _Five Rounds Rapid_, they wore their issued camo panels which stood out like tits on a boar.

"Oh, we uh, had to improvise," Wilhelm said after a second. "We lost our camouflage panels."

They had lost their panels all right, they had lost them in their quarters, never to be seen until returning them to the quartermaster.

He nodded. "Ah. Friendlies coming in!" the sergeant, Dorian, shouted over open COM.

"Come on in!" Lieutenant Staedtler responded. "Damn good to see you guys!"

"Could say the same thing, sir," Dorian said as they rounded the corner and met what was left of the platoon. "Except someone decided to drop a building in our way. We'd have gotten here sooner if it weren't for that."

"My fault, Sergeant," Wilhelm said with a noncommittal shrug. "We needed to put 'em down quickly."

"Yeah, well, just give us a little warning before you do that next time, eh?"

"Copy that."

The convoy was a militia formation, the drivers and gunners wearing their open helmets and what little armor they had over civvies. It was still somewhat surreal to see a man in a business suit with a helmet slightly too big for him and old body armor cinched too tight, with an M7 slung over a shoulder while holding on to the spade grips of a pintle-mounted M247. But there was no doubt they had seen battle. Many of them sported fresh burns , their faces smeared with dust and sweat. All of them shared the same grim expression. These men and women were defending their homes and families.

"What outfit are you boys with?" Staedtler asked, walking up as the other Shock Troopers of Third Platoon started to climb into the M831s.

"Fourth Mombasa Battalion, sir," the driver said, she looked like a high school student under the caking of grime.

Staedtler nodded and looked at the _Aegis Fate_ Shock Trooper. "And you?"

"Ninety-second Shock Troops Battalion, One-oh-five, sir," Dorian said, raising his right hand and tapping the side of his helmet in a very abbreviated salute. "We're from the _Aegis Fate_. Dropped in wrong when the _Fate_ took a hit."

"Understood, Sergeant," Staedtler said. He climbed into the M831 next to Wilhelm. "Okay, you have your orders, Private?"

Their driver nodded. "Retrieve ODST elements and transport to Old Mombasa force consolidation sites," she recited.

"Good, let's move out."

* * *

**COBB Industrial Park, New Mombasa, Earth**

**1034 Military Standard Time**

The Mgalekgolo had been _pushed_ into one of the large tanks. Jagged strips of metal around the site of impact flanged outwards like claws about to envelop the corpse-hulk. But what had 'Sraomee's attention was the state of the corpse. Mgalekgolo armor was rated to resist sustained bombardment from a Seraph's plasma cannon.

It was ticking as it cooled. What passed as the chest had been caved in like how human armor looked after being hit by a carbine round. The edges of the penetration had curled inwards and still glowed. But it was no ordinary weapon that had done this. It almost resembled the pattern created by the assault cannons that Mgalekgolo were traditionally armed with. 'Sraomee leaned in closer to examine the splatter-like holes, aware of the rumbling of the surviving member of the Mgalekgolo pair as it paced. It was surprisingly calm. All of the Mgalekgolo he had seen previously had reacted poorly to the death of a bond brother. But this Mgalekgolo was fairly contained.

"Any idea of what happened, Commander?" 'Moramee asked, kneeling down beside him, careful to avoid the pool of cooling silicon that had partially cooked the Lekgolo worms within the armor. "This seems...unnatural."

"Indeed it is," 'Sraomee said. He looked at the still-solidifying silicon, which encased many of the charred and definitely very dead Lekgolo. His armor's sensors detected no movement or life from any of the Lekgolo that had inhabited the armor. But they did find heightened levels of atmospheric fluorine. "It looks as if whatever had made this hole had incinerated everything inside of the armor. We need to get-"

"Commander, I cannot raise the Kig-yar-" Ranger Quoc 'Sraomee called, his words morphing into a shriek as he stumbled and then fell backwards clutching his arm. Or what was left of his arm.

To the credit of his blood, he made no further noise. His armor's medical systems kicked in and dosed him with a painkiller as his comrades pulled him to safety while searching for the attacker. 'Sraomee's nostrils wrinkled as he inspected the wound. It still hissed as the flesh cooked and melted. The sour stench and his visor's alerts of fluorine gas drove him back. It _had_ to have been the same weapon as that which had killed the Mgalekgolo. Whatever it was, it was hot enough to overload the Ranger's personal shield. And whatever was left that had mingled with what little blood was left was dripping onto the stone floor and leaving deep etchings wherever it fell.

"We need to get moving, and quickly," he roared, hearts thundering. "Fire at all possible targets!"

There was the squealing sound again and 'Sraomee found himself being smacked aside by tremendous force. He was catapulted into the side of one of the silicon tanks a row away. His impact left a faint impression of his armor on the tank wall before he fell to the ground. Whatever had hit him had drained away a portion of his shield. It had also dislocated his shoulder. Grabbing the offending limb, he wrenched it back into place with stifled roar.

"By the Gods," he grunted between ground teeth.

He could barely see his visor displays as he tried to orient himself. Eyes swimming, he managed to engage his armor's camouflage module. Putting one foot in front of the other was almost impossible. It was as if he had been run over by a horde of Mgalekgolo. But he was Sangheili. He was stronger than this. Staggering, he made his way toward where he could make out his unit being. The cloaking field did not help his navigation. His thermal imaging filter had been damaged and flickered in and out, leaving him with only his eyes to guide him in the half-darkness of his camouflage field.

Young Quoc would need a second. The idea occurred to him as he painfully put one foot in front of the other. It had been a clean wound, but a maiming wound. Sangheilios would not accept such a dishonored warrior's return, nor would the Nation of 'Sraom. And there was no way for him to end his own misery with a single hand. If they got out, _when_ they got out, 'Sraomee thought that perhaps they could find a swordsman to perform the rites. The idea of getting out was like a splash of cold water to his concussed and muddled mind. He had to get his Rangers out. Finding his footing, 'Sraomee moved forward with purpose.

Rounding the corner, he was bowled over by 'Moramee. The Ranger's legs had been severed below the lower knees which hissed with fluorine-fueled heat. He had undoubtedly been sent flying by the same assailant.

"Commander," he gasped, grabbing 'Sraomee's pauldron with wide eyes as he dropped the camouflage field. "It is a demon that we face. A _demon_!"

Struggling out from under him, 'Sraomee pulled himself to his feet. 'Moramee was a steadfast warrior. He had bested one of the human demons in single combat before. It would have taken more than merely a demon to have frightened him. Composing himself, 'Moramee pulled his plasma pistol out from its holster at his hip and pressed the emitter prongs against the base of his neck. Before he could squeeze the trigger pad and end his dishonor, 'Sraomee snatched it away.

"Not yet, warrior," he said. "Your weapon still calls for blood."

"Yes...Commander," 'Moramee said, disappointment evident in his voice.

'Sraomee checked the pistol, fully charged. He himself had forgone a pistol in the rush to deploy, and using his wrist blade was not an option he particularly relished. Reengaging his camouflage, he rounded the corner to find himself in the midst of a scene of utter carnage. His Rangers were trying to fight the so-called "demon." It would have been easier to grasp quicksilver. But their opponent had no such issues. White-hot chemical fires rapidly burned the limbs and bodies of slain Rangers. Their blue blood had heat-cured into an indigo crust over the more syrupy gore.

The smoke and fire rapidly overloaded his camouflage. But 'Sraomee was not alone in the acrid and acidic smog. He could see the surviving Rangers and Jiralhanae in the smoky mist, illuminated by the strobe of their plasma weapons. The surviving Mgalekgolo was kneeling in the muck, immobile as a statue. Even its outer worms did not squirm.

He saw his Rangers and the Jiralhanae firing at any movement they spotted, back to back. But then they were gone. They had been thrown aside, one of the Jiralhanae burned cleanly in two, a Ranger decapitated by a gout of the acidic flame. But in that moment he had a clear look at his opponent.

It was almost as large as a Mgalekgolo, and constructed of a dull metal that shone in the fires. He could pick out the subtle whine of servomotors that moved its limbs with unnatural agility. Its plantigrade legs were caked in the dried blood of Sangheili and Jiralhanae, save for the wheels that were attached to the sides of its massive feet. Those glistened in the half-darkness. There were two arms, both ending in five-digit hands. But its right arm also sported a nozzle attached by a tube to a massive cylindrical tank clamped to its back. The tip of the nozzle flared every few seconds as the residue of contents of the tank that had been pumped out ignited. A scarlet optical cluster where its head would have been scanned the area as it stood there. 'Moramee was right. It was an abomination. It was a _demon_.

Activating his camouflage, 'Sraomee dove for cover before it could notice him. He saw it turn, legs unmoving but the wheels making that distinctive squeal. But then it's leg moved. It lifted up like a human leg and then came down on top of a wounded Jiralhanae. The horrifically burned Jiralhanae screamed before the demon brought it's full weight down. There was a snap followed by a wet crunch as its foot broke the Jiralhanae's spine and then crushed his ribcage literally flat.

Its nozzle-bearing arm then raised and from it the demon issued a white-hot gout of chlorine trifluoride. The spray landed on a Ranger that was struggling to his feet with a shattered arm. 'Sraomee watched as his shields flared in an attempt to neutralize the threat. He saw it grow brighter and throw off sparks before being finally collapsing. With that out of the way, the flames started by the liquid ate away at exposed flesh, melting and eating into the Ranger's armor and underlayer equally as well. The corrosive hydrofluoric acid fumes were inhaled as he attempted to scream but to no avail. His lungs seared by the superheated acid mist could draw no breath. But it was clear he was suffering agony beyond imagining as the acid was absorbed into his surround tissue to eat away at his bones and nervous tissue. It was a race to see whether the fact that his very flesh had ignited, or that the massive nerve trauma leading to cardiac arrest, would kill him first.

Gagging at the thought, 'Sraomee brought his pistol up. But by the time he did, the Mgalekgolo was moving. It still surprised him how quickly they could move if they so wished. Its armor flashed a blue-green in the white light of the flames as it charged. His eyes could barely even see it, blurring to strike at the demon. There was a tremendous _CLANG_ as the two titans met.

They were locked in place, the smaller demon almost effortlessly holding off the Mgalekgolo's massive shield from caving in its head with one hand. Its other hand was locked with the Mgalekgolo's cannon arm, each trying to push the other the other way. It reminded 'Sraomee of the monument of Fal of 'Chavamee on Sanghelios. The monument depicted Fal of 'Chavamee and Haka of 'Chavamee, with their blades at the other's throat, each ready to land the killing blow. With the power of their individual weapons, the comparison seemed apt.

With a deep roar, the Mgalekgolo raised its shield arm and brought it back down at lightning speed. That broke the deadlock. The demon slid backwards in a spin on its wheeled feet with its fluid-sprayer ready to fire even as the Mgalekgolo fired its assault cannon.

The demon's spray mostly fell short, some of it landing on the armor of the Mgalekgolo to sear growing pits. However, the incendiary gel flew true and splattered against the carapace of the silver-white demon to burn a bright green...

Which did absolutely nothing.

The demon used its free hand to scrape away some of the burning gel and flicked it away as if it were a nuisance. Then it _moved_. Just as fast as the Mgalekgolo, it collided with the heavy Mgalekgolo and _flipped_ it like a toy. The Mgalekgolo landed with a thunderous crash before the demon grabbed the edge of its chest armor and started to deliver rapid-fire punches into what approximated a head for the Mgalekgolo. It was certainly striking harder than its own frame could handle. The metal of its hands was groaning with each strike and strips of metal were falling away. But it was doing serious damage. With a final strike, the Mgalekgolo's "head" was severed from its body to roll away, oozing bright orange Lekgolo.

But it took more than that to kill a Mgalekgolo. The Covenant had learned as much during the Taming. 'Sraomee watched as its shield arm lashed out and knocked the demon away to slam into a tank with enough force to rupture the tank wall. The demon was staggered, acting like a concussed fighter as it pulled itself from the rent. It left a trail of half-molten silicon behind it as it steadied itself. The wheels squealed and then it was grabbing at the Mgalekgolo again.

"Blood," 'Sraomee said in awe. He looked around for anything to supplement his pistol but he doubted anything could scratch the monster.

The demon had gained a grip on the Mgalekgolo again. There was a metallic wrenching and the assault cannon and its associated arm flew away as the demon laid into it again. Roaring, the Mgalekgolo smashed its shield against the side of the demon. Its iridescent armor was supposed to be impregnable to even sustained plasma fire. But 'Sraomee could see that patches of it were sloughing away, glowing with heat. A toxic steam enveloped the two combatants. But he could still see the demon almost collapse from the blow. The Mgalekgolo clearly had the upper hand.

"All surviving Rangers, report," he hissed, picking up a heat-scorched plasma rifle. Its casing was slowly oozing away and he could see the internal mechanisms of the weapon at some points. "You need to find elevated positions. Concentrate your fire on the demon on my mark."

He needed no verbal confirmation. The flowing shadows and their transponders getting into position told him everything he needed to know.

The two titans traded blows. The Mgalekgolo's shield arm whipped about at lightning speed, crushing the pale armor of the demon's arm. It fell limp at its side with the underlying mechanisms ruined. Undeterred, the demon used its remaining arm to deliver a jab at the Mgalekgolo's belly plating. It creased and partially fell away to reveal the Lekgolo colony beneath. The shield came down again, this time on a shoulder. Falling to a knee, the demon's optical cluster suddenly turned up to look at the headless Mgalekgolo. Its remaining arm came up with the nozzle.

By the time the Mgalekgolo could react, it had already sprayed the liquid hellfire. The shield caught most of the spray but the rest splashed against the pitted chest armor and ignited. The Mgalekgolo had reached its limit, taking a dazed step back. Over the rush of flames, 'Sraomee could hear the hissing of Lekgolo worms being cooked alive under the armor. But the demon had to be the same way. It was almost doubled over.

There was the devilish squeal of the wheels and the demon catapulted itself forward into the Mgalekgolo in a crude tackle. Off balance, the Mgalekgolo was easily knocked off of its feet. The demon's forward momentum finally brought the two of them to rest against and then through the wall of another of the silicon tanks. The molten silicon flowed over the Mgalekgolo and demon alike. But only one of them showed signs of being affected. The demon held the hulking living weapon in place as its basso roar turned incoherent as the Lekgolo within the armor were cooked alive.

Even as the colony died, it still struggled. The heavy armor-clad feet twitched and jerked before the Lekgolo lost coherency and slithered apart. Raising his rifle, 'Sraomee took aim at the demon as it stood over its latest victim. Its _last_ victim.

"Fire," he said quietly.

The firing of his rifle overwhelmed the camouflage field around him. But that no longer mattered. While the plasma rifle did not have the cyclic rate of the old repeaters, it could still pour out a prodigious stream of fire when needed. His Rangers opened fire as well, the blue-white plasma streaking through the darkness to strike at the demon. It turned slowly to face the fire without staggering. As it raised its arm again, accurate plasma fire shredded the nozzle and hose assembly followed shortly by the tank. The contents of the tank started to spill out, splashing and splattering, igniting everything around it. Darkness became light as the very concrete they were standing on began to combust. The ash in the air flash-ignited as the air became toxic to breathe.

"Retreat," 'Sraomee rasped, watching as the suit unconcernedly stepped over the melting Mgalekgolo armor to disappear behind a melting tank. "Anyone who can hear me, retreat _now_."

The heat and smoke were stealing the breath from his lungs. He was dazzled even after his visor's cut-offs polarized. Turning away, he noticed that his shield had been overloaded just from his proximity to the tremendous heat. He could feel the leathery underlayer of his armor heating up and stinging as it started to melt. Accessing whatever the humans had hidden would need to wait for just a little longer...

He broke out into a run for the entrance, paced by the fire and the thought of the nightmare that he had encountered. Crashing through the front office, he and his Rangers scrambled madly for open air. Behind them the structural supports that held the building together began to bend. Metal started to melt and buckle with tooth-grinding screeches. Unable to support its own weight, the building quickly collapsed in on itself.

The process started slowly at the walls as their stone cladding slithered off in the heat, red hot. Then the collapse started in earnest. Load-bearing columns experienced heat beyond imagining. Even the heat-resistant ceramic that they had been clad in wept molten white tears as they came apart. The metal within quickly heated up, but with no support, they folded under the weight of the burning roof and upper floors which were consumed in a true firestorm. Despite experiencing stresses beyond even what the builders had predicted, it somehow managed to fall inwards as the columns gave out. It entombed the hellfire under the molten mass of metal and heat-resistant materials that had been the building. And with any luck, the human demon would be buried as well with the bodies of the Rangers he had lost.

"Inform the Heirarchs of our failure," 'Sraomee said, tearing his scalding-hot helmet away and tossing it aside. He coughed, tasting the bitter fluorine even then. "Tell them we will be trying to access the objective from an alternate vector."

"You cannot continue, Commander," Ranger 'Kasamee said with a shake of his head.

'Sraomee swung around to glare at him. "What did you say? It is our obligation as Sangheili to-"

'Kasamee held up a placating hand. "Those are the words of the High Prophet of Regret himself. We are being retasked."

"Where?"

"The _Solemn Penance_'s landing site," 'Kasamee said. "They are sending a dropship to pick us up."

"At least they will be able to find us easily," 'Sraomee said bitterly.

He had experienced his share of scrubbed missions, but this one grated at him. The creed of the Rangers was that there was always another way to accomplish the mission. Worse yet, he had lost well over two thirds of his command in that infernal pit. Such a loss of honor was almost unbelievable. It would have been better if he had been slower and crushed underneath the rubble.

The Phantom dropship landed fifteen minutes later, and the tired survivors of mission climbed aboard with the collective air of the condemned. 'Sraomee watched the still burning ruin recede below him. He watched his comrades buried beneath the rubble disappear as they flew on to their new objective. Such was the life of a warrior of the Covenant. He knew that one day they would all make the Great Journey together, a journey only made by the faithful. But he was beginning to doubt his own faith...

* * *

**Nyali Road, Old Mombasa, Earth**

**1016 Military Standard Time**

Death came in the form of a formation of Skyhawks and Wombats. Their first run was purely AI-guided, targeting priority targets painted by the troops on the ground. Scorpion and ANVIL-IV missiles struck the sides of one of the buildings on the western side of the highway. Somewhere close to forty explosive warheads slammed into the building and detonated with a deafening thunderclap. The upper floors of the building were filled with fire and shrapnel as the anti-tank missiles sheared through the supports and anyone unlucky enough to be in their way. And then things got significantly worse for the alien occupants as every floor above the twentieth decided to finally collapse.

Leeds whooped, pumping his fist in the air as the aircraft screamed overhead. The plasma fire had stopped at last. He watched as their CAS shattered the enemy positions with concentrated fire. The larger Skyhawks blasted their targets with their Scorpions like the fists of a drunken and particularly angry deity. Building facades crumbled and fell. Pivoting with the help of their ducted fans, they then made use of their fifty-millimeter guns to further shred their way into the depths of the Covenant positions. They were technically interceptors, but the Skyhawks and their pilots proved to be excellent killers of alien ground forces.

Unrestrained by their lack of a physical pilot within the vehicle, the Wombats were a terror to behold. The chunky drones made pass after pass, their missiles and GAU-81As lashing out at the surviving emplacements. Whipping about and flying dangerously low to the ground, several of the UCAVs made passes that ripped into the bases of the apartment buildings.

The soldiers of Firebottle roared, firing with renewed vigor. Nothing like a little air support to rebuild morale.

"-the _In Amber Clad_-" a woman's voice suddenly broke into their channel, static-filled and likely incidental COM bounce. "-I repeat, Sierra-117 is on the ground. We-"

Rising, Leeds looked around incredulously as the CAS mopped up. Using a "Sierra" prefix with a three-number code only meant one thing. His soot-stained face broke out into a smile.

Spartans.

The Covenant were doomed now.

* * *

**Medal of Honor Citation - Admiral Jalila Chavez**

For conspicuous courage and extraordinary heroism above and beyond the call of duty as Commanding Officer, UNSC Battlegroup S-5929 in the Battle of Africa on 20 October 2552. On this date, returning from supporting operations during the successful Ballast campaign, the UNSC _Five Rounds Rapid_ (C-860) and the other ships of the Battlegroup S-5929 arrived in Earth orbit during the preliminary space combat between United Nations Space Command forces and the forces of the Covenant Empire. In spite of the Covenant forces massing over the continent of Africa, Admiral Chavez's maneuvering of her command allowed the battlegroup to penetrate the enemy cordon and successfully deliver their complements of Marine and Army forces to the surface to aid in the defense of Earth with a high-risk atmospheric insertion. During this process, Admiral Chavez maneuvered the _Five Rounds Rapid_ in a position whereby it would shield the inserting forces from orbital fire, knowing that her ship was incapable of sustained atmospheric operations. Suffering from severe battle damage aggravated by the stresses of atmospheric operations, the _Five Rounds Rapid_ was forced to ground in the Indian Ocean. Her courageous initiative, inspiring leadership, and superb skill in a time of crisis were in keeping with the finest traditions of the United Nations Space Command Naval Service.

* * *

Author's Rant: Well, here's another chapter at long last. I've been distracted by other things, to say the least.

And now for some interaction...

Jarhead762: The Deathstalker's top acceleration is seven kilometers per hour. Its top _speed_ on the other hand... Well, it's got ten tons on the Abrams, and sports a hybrid turbine.  
- Addendum: And it's not a drone. The demon is a man wearing an industrial exoskeleton intended for cleaning out chemical vapor deposition tanks with chlorine trifluoride. The technicians just stripped out the governors.


End file.
